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BRUCE 
OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bruceofcircleOOtiturich 


Except  for  the  animal's  breathing-,  the  world 

was  very  quiet.  See  Page  160 


BRUCE 
OF   THE  CIRCLE   A 


BY 

HAROLD  TITUS 

Author  of  " —  I  Conquered" 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918 
By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(incorporated) 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Woman i 

II     Some  Men 7 

III  The  Lodger  Next  Door 17 

IV  A  Revelation 31 

V    The  Clergy  of  Yavapai 46 

VI    At  the  Circle  A 56 

VII    Tongues  Wag 68 

VIII    A  Heart  Speaks 84 

IX    Lytton's  Nemesis 102 

X    Whom  God  Hath  Joined 119 

XI     The  Story  of  Abe 131 

XII     The  Runaway 147 

XIII  The  Scourging 163 

XIV  The  Woman  on  Horseback 187 

XV     Her  Lord  and  Master 204 

XVI     The  Message  on  the  Saddle 223 

XVII     The  End  of  the  Vigil 239 

XVIII    The  Fight 255 

XIX    The  Trails  Unite 278 


ttPZfZ&QnK*. 


BRUCE 
OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 


BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   WOMAN 

Daylight  and  the  Prescott-Phoenix  train  were  going 
from  Yavapai.  Fifty  paces  from  the  box  of  a  station 
a  woman  stood  alone  beside  the  track,  bag  in  hand, 
watching  the  three  red  lights  of  the  observation  plat- 
form dwindle  to  a  ruby  unit  far  down  the  clicking 
ribbons  of  steel.  As  she  watched,  she  felt  herself 
becoming  lost  in  the  spaciousness,  the  silence  of  an 
Arizona  evening. 

Ann  Lytton  was  a  stranger  in  that  strange  land. 
Impressions  pelted  in  upon  her  —  the  silhouetted  range 
against  the  cerise  flush  of  western  sky;  the  valley 
sweeping  outward  in  all  other  directions  to  lose  itself  in 
the  creeping  blue-grays  of  night;  droning  voices  of  men 
from  the  station;  a  sense  of  her  own  physical  incon- 
sequence; her  loneliness  .  .  .  and,  as  a  background, 
the  insistent  vastness  of  the  place. 

Then,  out  of  the  silence  from  somewhere  not  far  off, 
came  a  flat,  dead  crash,  the  report  of  a  firearm.  The 
woman  was  acutely  conscious  that  the  voices  in  the 
station  had  broken  short  with  an  abruptness  which 


2  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

alarmed  her.  The  other  sound  —  the  shot  —  had 
touched  fear  in  her,  too,  and  the  knowledge  that  it  had 
nipped  the  attention  of  the  talking  men  sent  a  cool 
thrill  down  her  limbs. 

A  man  emerged  from  the  depot  and  his  voice  broke 
in, 

"  Wonder  where  that  — " 

He  stopped  short  and  the  woman  divined  the  reason. 
She  strained  to  catch  the  thrum  of  running  hoofs,  know- 
ing intuitively  that  the  man,  also,  had  ceased  speaking 
to  listen.     She  was  conscious  that  she  trembled. 

Another  man  stepped  into  the  open  and  spoke,  hur- 
riedly, but  so  low  that  Ann  could  not  hear;  the  first 
replied  in  the  same  manner,  giving  a  sense  of  stealth,  of 
furtiveness  that  seemed  to  the  woman  portentous.  She 
took  a  step  forward,  frightened  at  she  knew  not  what, 
wanting  to  run  to  the  men  just  because  she  was  afraid 
and  they  were  human  beings.  She  checked  herself, 
though,  and  forced  reason. 

This  was  nonsense !  She  laid  it  on  her  nerves. 
They  were  ragged  after  the  suspense  and  the  long  jour- 
ney, the  dread  and  hopes.  A  shot,  a  galloping  horse, 
a  suspected  anxiety  in  the  talk  of  the  two  men  had  com- 
bined to  play  upon  them  in  their  overwrought  condition. 

Then,  the  first  speaker's  voice  again,  in  normal  tone, 

"  Trunk  here,  but  I  didn't  see  anybody  get  off." 

Ann  wanted  to  laugh  with  relief.  Just  that  one  sen- 
tence linked  her  up  with  everyday  life  again,  took  the 
shake  from  her  knees  and  the  accented  leap  from  her 


THE  WOMAN  3 

heart.     She  was  impelled  to  run  to  him,  and  held  her- 
self to  a  walk  by  effort. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of 
the  best  hotel?  "  she  asked. 

The  man  who  had  seized  the  trunk  stopped  rolling 
it  toward  the  doorway  and  turned  quickly  to  look  at  the 
woman  who  stood  there  in  the  pallid  glow  from  the  one 
oil  lamp.  He  saw  a  blue  straw  toque  fitting  tightly 
over  a  compact  mass  of  black  hair;  he  saw  blue  eyes, 
earnest  and  troubled;  red  lips,  with  the  fullness  of 
youth;  flushed  cheeks,  a  trim,  small  body  clothed  in  a 
close  fitting,  dark  suit. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  it's  th'  Manzanita  House.  It's  th' 
two-story  buildin'  up  th'  street.     Is  this  your  trunk?  " 

"  Yes.     May  I  leave  it  here  until  morning?  " 

The  man  nodded.     "  Sure,"  he  answered. 

"  Thank  you.     Is  there  a  carriage  here?  " 

He  set  the  trunk  on  end,  wiped  his  palms  on  his  hips 
and  smiled  slightly. 

"  No,  ma'am.  Yavapai  ain't  quite  up  to  hacks  an' 
things  yet.  We're  young.  You  can  walk  it  in  two 
minutes." 

Ann  hesitated. 

"It's  ...  all  right,  is  it?" 

He  did  not  comprehend. 

"  For  me  to  walk,  I  mean.  Just  now.  ...  It 
sounded  as  if  some  one  shot,  I  thought." 

He  laughed. 

"  Oh,  Yavapai's  a  safe  place !     Somebody  just  shot 


4  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

at  something  I  guess.  But  it's  all  right.  We  ain't 
got  no  hacks,  but  we  don't  have  no  killin's  either." 

"  I'm  glad  of  the  one  anyhow,"  Ann  smiled,  and 
started  away  from  him  not,  however,  wholly  reas- 
sured. 

She  walked  toward  the  array  of  yellow  lighted  win- 
dows that  showed  through  the  deepening  darkness, 
making  her  way  over  the  hard  ground,  hurriedly,  skirt 
lifted  in  the  free  hand.  She  had  not  inspected  the 
shadowy  town  beyond  glancing  casually  to  register  the 
ill-defined  impressions  of  scattered  stock  pens,  sprawl- 
ing buildings,  a  short  string  of  box-cars,  a  water-tank. 
The  country,  the  location  of  the  settlement,  was  the 
thing  which  had  demanded  her  first  attention,  for  it 
was  all  strange,  new,  a  bit  terrifying  in  the  twilight. 
Two  men  passed  her,  talking;  their  voices  ceased  and 
she  knew  that  they  turned  to  stare ;  then  one  spoke  in 
a  lowered  tone  .  .  .  and  the  night  had  them.  A  man 
on  horseback  rode  down  the  street  at  a  slow  trot.  She 
wondered  uneasily  if  that  was  the  horse  which  had 
raced  away  at  the  sound  of  the  shot.  From  the  most 
brilliantly  lighted  building  the  sound  of  a  mechanical 
piano  suddenly  burst,  hammering  out  a  blatant  melody. 

A  thick  sprinkling  of  stars  had  pricked  through  the 
darkening  sky  and  Ann,  as  she  walked  along,  scanned 
the  outline  that  each  structure  made  against  them. 
Once  she  laughed  shortly  to  herself  and  thought, 

"  The  two-story  building!  " 

And,  almost  with  that  thought,  she  stood  before  it. 


THE  WOMAN  5 

An  oil  lamp  on  an  uncertain  post  was  set  close  against 
the  veranda  and  through  an  open  window  she  saw  a 
woman,  bearing  a  tray,  pause  beside  a  table  and  deposit 
steaming  dishes.  She  walked  up  the  steps,  opened  the 
screen  door,  and  entered  an  unlighted  hall,  barren,  also, 
to  judge  from  the  sounds.  On  one  side  was  the  dining 
room;  on  the  other,  a  cramped  office. 

"  This  is  the  Manzanita  House?  "  she  asked  a  youth 
who,  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  read  a  newspaper 
which  was  spread  over  the  top  of  a  small  glass  cigar 
case  on  the  end  of  a  narrow  counter. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  " —  evidently  surprised. 

He  saw  her  bag,  looked  at  her  face  again,  took  off 
his  hat  shyly  and  opened  a  ruled  copybook  to  which  a 
pencil  was  attached  by  a  length  of  grimy  cotton  twine. 
He  pushed  it  toward  her,  and  the  woman,  as  she  drew 
off  her  glove,  saw  that  this  was  the  hotel  register. 

In  a  bold,  large  hand  she  wrote : 

"  Ann  Lytton,  Portland,  Maine." 

"  I'd  like  a  room  for  to-night,"  she  said,  "  and  to- 
morrow I'd  like  to  get  to  the  Sunset  mine.  Can  you 
direct  me?  " 

A  faint  suggestion  of  anxiety  was  in  her  query 
and  on  the  question  the  youth  looked  at  her  sharply, 
met  her  gaze  and  let  his  waver  off.  He  turned  to  put 
the  register  on  the  shelf  behind  him. 

11  Why,  I  can  find  out,"  he  answered,  evasively. 
"  It's  over  thirty  miles  out  there  and  th'  road  ain't  so 
very  good  yet.     You  can  get  th'  automobile  to  take 


6  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

you.  It's  out  now  —  took  the  doctor  out  this  after- 
noon—  and  won't  be  back  till  late,  prob'ly." 

He  took  the  register  from  the  shelf  again  and,  on 
pretext  of  noting  her  room  number  on  the  margin  of 
the  leaf,  re-read  her  name  and  address,  moving  his  lips 
in  the  soundless  syllables. 

"  I'd  .  .  .  I'd  like  to  go  to  my  room,  if  I  may,"  the 
woman  said,  and,  picking  up  one  of  the  two  lighted 
lamps,  the  other  led  her  into  the  hall  and  up  the  nar- 
row flight  of  stairs. 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  young  man  stood  in  the  hotel 
kitchen,  the  house  register  in  his  hands.  Over  his  right 
shoulder  the  waitress  peered  and  over  his  left,  the  cook 
breathed  heavily,  as  became  her  weight. 

"  Just  Ann.  It  don't  say  Miss  or  Missus,"  the  wait- 
ress said. 

"  I  know,  Nora,  but  somehow  she  don't  look  like  his 
Missus,"  the  boy  said,  with  a  shake  of  his  head. 

"  From  what  you  say  about  her,  she  sure  don't. 
Are  you  goin'  to  tell  her  anythin'  ?  Are  you  goin'  to 
try  to  find  out?" 

"  Not  me.  I  wouldn't  tell  her  nothin' !  Gee,  I 
wouldn't  have  th'  nerve.  Not  after  knowin'  him  and 
then  takin'  a  real  good  look  at  a  face  like  hers." 

"  If  she  is  his,  it's  a  dirty  shame !  "  the  girl  de- 
clared, picking  up  her  tray.  She  kicked  open  the 
swinging  door  and  passed  into  the  dining  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

SOME    MEN 

Ann  Lytton  ate  alone  —  ate  alone,  but  did  not  sit 
alone.  She  was  the  last  patron  of  the  dining  room  that 
evening,  and,  after  Nora  Brewster,  the  waitress,  had 
surrounded  her  plate  with  an  odd  assortment  of  heavy 
side-dishes,  she  drew  out  a  chair  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
seated  herself,  elbows  on  the  limp,  light  linen,  and, 
black  eyes  fast  on  the  face  of  the  other  woman,  pushed 
conversation. 

"  From  the  East,  ain't  you?"  she  began,  and  Ann 
'smiled  assent. 

"  New  York?" 

"  No,  not  New  York,"  and  the  blue  eyes  met  the 
black  ones,  running  quickly  over  the  pretty,  dark- 
skinned  face,  the  thick  coils  of  chestnut  hair,  noting  the 
big,  kindly  mouth,  the  peculiarly  weak  chin.  Ob- 
viously, the  girl  was  striving  to  pump  the  newcomer 
and  on  the  realization  some  of  the  trouble  retreated 
far  into  the  blue  eyes  and  Ann  smiled  in  kindliness  at 
Nora,  as  she  parried  the  girl's  direct  questions. 

In  another  mood  a  part  of  her  might  have  resented 
this  blunt  curiosity,  but  just  now  it  came  as  a  relief 
from  a  line  of  thought  which  had  been  too  long  sus- 

7 


8  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

tained.  And,  after  they  had  talked  a  few  moments, 
the  eastern  woman  found  herself  interested  in  the  sim- 
plicity, the  patent  sincerity,  of  the  other.  The  con- 
versation flourished  throughout  the  meal  and  by  the 
time  Ann  had  tasted  and  put  aside  the  canned  plums 
she  had  discovered  much  about  Nora  Brewster,  while 
Nora,  returning  to  the  kitchen  to  tell  the  cook  and  the 
boy  from  the  office  all  she  had  learned,  awakened  to 
the  fact  that  she  had  found  out  nothing  at  all ! 

Ann  walked  slowly  from  the  dining  room  into  the 
office  to  leave  instructions  about  her  trunk,  but  the  room 
was  empty  and  she  went  back  to  the  door  which  stood 
open  and  looked  out  into  the  street.  From  across 
the  way  the  mechanical  piano  continued  its  racket, 
and  an  occasional  voice  was  lifted  in  song  or  laugh- 
ter. She  thought  again  of  the  shot,  the  running 
horse.  She  watched  the  shadowy  figures  passing  to 
and  fro  behind  the  glazed  windows  of  the  saloon  and 
between  her  brows  came  a  frown.  She  drew  a  deep 
breath,  held  it  a  long  instant,  then  let  it  slip  quickly 
out,  ending  in  a  little  catch  of  a  cough.  She  closed 
one  hand  and  let  it  fall  into  the  other  palm. 

"  To-morrow  at  this  time,  I  may  know,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

She  would  have  turned  away  and  climbed  the  stairs, 
then,  but  on  her  last  glance  into  the  street  a  moving 
blotch  attracted  her  attention.  She  looked  at  it  again, 
closer;  it  was  approaching  the  hotel  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment she  discerned  the  outlines  of  a  man  walking,  lead- 


SOME  MEN  9 

ing  a  horse.  A  peculiar  quality  about  his  movements, 
an  undistinguished  part  of  the  picture,  held  her  in  the 
doorway  an  instant  longer. 

Then,  she  saw  that  the  man  was  carrying  the  limp 
figure  of  another  and  that  he  was  coming  directly  to- 
ward her,  striding  into  the  circle  of  feeble  light  cast 
from  the  lamp  on  the  post,  growing  more  and  more 
distinct  with  each  step.  A  thrill  ran  through  the 
woman,  making  her  shudder  as  she  drew  back;  the 
arms  and  legs  of  the  figure  that  was  being  borne  toward 
her  swung  so  helplessly,  as  though  they  were  boneless; 
the  head,  too,  swayed  from  side  to  side.  Yet  these  ap- 
pearances, suggestive  as  they  were  of  tragedy,  did  not 
form  the  influence  which  caused  Ann's  throat  to  tighten 
and  her  pulse  to  speed.  She  heard  voices  and  foot- 
steps as  other  men  ran  up.  She  drew  back  into  the 
shadows  of  the  hall. 

"  What  you  got,  Bruce?"  one  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
concern. 

"  O,  a  small  parcel  of  man  meat,"  she  heard  the  tall 
one  explain  casually,  with  something  like  amusement  in 
his  voice. 

"  Who  is  it?" 

An  answer  was  made,  but  the  woman  could  not  un- 
derstand. 

"Oh,  Mm!"  Disdain  was  in  the  voice,  as  though 
there  were  no  longer  cause  for  apprehension,  as  if  the 
potential  consequence  of  the  situation  had  been  dissi- 
pated by  identification  of  the  unconscious  figure. 


io  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Other  arrivals,  fresh  voices;  out  under  the  light  a 
dozen  men  were  clustered  about  the  tall  fellow  and  his 
burden. 

"  Where'd  you  find  him?  "  one  asked. 

"Out  at  th'  edge  of  town  —  in  th'  ditch.  Abe, 
here," — with  a  jerk  of  his  head  to  indicate  the  sleek 
sorrel  horse  he  led  — "  found  him.  He  acted  so 
damned  funny  he  made  me  get  off  to  see  what  it  was, 
an',  sure  enough,  here  was  Yavapai's  most  enthusiastic 
drinker,  sleepin'  in  th'  ditch ! 

"  Here,  let  me  put  him  down  on  th'  porch,  there," — 
elbowing  his  way  through  the  knot  about  him.  "  He 
ain't  much  more  man  in  pounds  than  he  is  in  principle, 
but  he  weighs  up  considerable  after  packin'  him  all  this 
way." 

The  watching  woman  saw  that  his  burden  was  a 
slight  figure,  short  and  slender,  dressed  roughly,  with 
his  clothing  worn  and  torn  and  stained. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  Abe  pack  him?  "  a  man  asked, 
as  the  big  cowboy,  stooping  gently,  put  the  inert  head 
and  shoulders  to  the  boards  and  slowly  lowered  the 
limp  legs.  He  straightened,  and,  with  a  red  handker- 
chief, whipped  the  dust  from  his  shirt.  Then,  he 
hitched  up  his  white  goatskin  chaps  and  looked  into 
the  face  of  his  questioner  and  smiled. 

"  Well,  Tommy,  Abe  here  ain't  never  had  to  carry 
a  souse  yet,  an'  I  guess  he  won't  have  to  so  long  as  I'm 
around  an'  healthy.     That  right,  Abe?  " 


SOME  MEN  ii 

He  reached  out  a  hand  and  the  sorrel,  intelligent  ears 
forward  in  inquiry,  moved  closer  by  a  step  to  smell  the 
fingers;  then,  allowed  them  to  scratch  the  white  patch 
on  his  nose. 

A  chuckle  of  surprise  greeted  the  man's  remark. 

"  Why,  Bruce,  to  hear  you  talk  anybody'd  think  that 
you  close-herded  your  morals  continual;  that  you  was  a 
1  Aid  S'city  '  wagon  boss;  that  lips  that  touch  liquor 
should  never  — " 

"  I  ain't  said  nothin'  to  make  you  think  that,  Tommy 
Clary,"  the  other  replied,  laughing  at  the  upturned  face 
of  his  challenger,  who  was  short  and  pug-nosed  and 
possessed  of  a  mouth  that  refused  to  do  anything  but 
smile ;  who  was  completely  over-shadowed  and  rendered 
top-heavy  by  a  hat  of  astonishing  proportions.  "  I 
drink,"  he  went  on,  "  like  th'  rest  of  us  damn  fools,  but 
I  don't  think  it's  smart  to  do  it.  I  think  it  is  pretty 
much  all  nonsense,  an'  I  think  that  when  you  drink  you 
ought  to  associate  with  drinkin'  folks  an'  let  th'  ones 
who  have  better  sense  alone. 

"  That's  why  I  never  ride  Abe  to  town  when  I  figure 
I'm  goin'  to  be  doin'  any  hellin'  around;  that's  why,  if 
I  have  got  drunk  by  mistake  when  I  had  him  here,  I've 
slept  in  town  instead  of  goin'  home.  Abe,  you  see, 
Tommy,  has  got  a  good  deal  of  white  man  in  him  for 
a  horse.  He'd  carry  me  all  right  if  I  was  drunk,  if  I 
asked  him  to;  but  I  won't,  because  he's  such  a  good 
horse  that  he  ought  to  always  have  a  mighty  good  man 


12  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

on  his  middle.  When  a  man's  drunk,  he  ain't  good 
.  .  .  for  nothin'.  Like  this  here  " —  with  a  con- 
temptuous movement  of  one  booted  foot  to  indicate  the 
huddle  of  a  figure  which  lay  in  the  lamplight. 

"  No,  I  don't  make  no  claim  to  bein'  a  saint,  Tommy. 
Good  Lord,  hombre,  do  you  think,  if  I  thought  I  was 
right  decent  all  th'  time,  all  through,  I'd  ever  be  seen 
swapping  lies  with  any  such  ugly  outcast  as  you  are?  " 

The  others  laughed  again  at  that,  and  the  tall  man 
removed  his  hat  to  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  fore- 
head. 

Ann,  watching  from  the  shadows,  lips  pressed  to- 
gether, heart  on  a  rampage  from  a  fear  that  was  at 
once  groundless  and  natural,  saw  his  fine  profile  against 
the  lamp,  as  he  laughed  good-naturedly  at  the  man  he 
had  jibed.  His  head  was  flung  back  boyishly,  but  about 
its  poise,  its  lines,  the  way  it  was  set  on  his  sturdy  neck, 
was  an  indication  of  superb  strength,  a  fine  mettle. 
His  hair  fell  backward  from  the  brow.  It  tended  to- 
ward waviness  and  was  dry  and  light  in  texture  as  well 
as  in  color,  for  the  rays  of  the  light  were  scattered 
and  diffused  as  they  shot  through  it.  He  was  in- 
credibly tall  in  his  high-heeled  riding  boots,  but  his 
breadth  was  in  proportion.  The  movements  of  his 
long  arms,  his  finely  moulded  shoulders,  his  whole  lithe 
torso  were  well  measured,  splendidly  balanced,  of  that 
natural  grace  and  assurance  which  marks  the  inherent 
leadership  born  in  individuals.     His  voice  went  well 


SOME  MEN  13 

with  the  rest  of  him,  for  it  was  smooth  and  deep  and 
filled  with  capabilities  of  expression. 

"  Well,  if  you  think  all  us  drunkards  are  such  buz- 
zard fodder,  what  are  you  packin'  this  around  with  you 
for?  "  Clary  asked,  after  the  laughter  had  subsided. 

The  cowman  looked  down  thoughtfully  a  moment 
and  his  face  grew  serious.  He  shook  bis  head 
soberly. 

"This  fellow's  a  cripple,  boys;  that's  all.  Just  a 
cripple,"  he  explained. 

"  Cripple  !  He's  about  th'  liveliest,  most  cantanker- 
ous, trouble-maker  this  country  has  had  to  watch  since 
Bill  Williams  named  his  mountain !  "  a  man  in  the 
group  scoffed. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  His  legs  ain't  broke  or  deformed; 
he  can  use  both  arms;  his  fool  tongue  has  made  us  all 
pretty  hot  since  we've  knowed  him.  But  he  ain't  right 
up  here,  in  his  head,  boys.  He's  crippled  there. 
There  ain't  no  reason  for  a  human  bein'  gettin'  to  be 
so  nasty  as  he's  got  to  be.  It  ain't  natural.  It's  th' 
booze,  Tommy,  th'  booze  that's  crippled  him.  He 
ought  to  be  kept  away  from  it  until  he's  had  a  chance, 
but  nobody's  took  enough  interest  in  him  or  th'  good  of 
th'  town  to  tend  to  that.  We've  just  locked  him  up 
when  he  got  too  drunk  an'  turned  him  loose  to  hell 
some  more  when  he  was  half-way  sober.  He  ain't  had 
nobody  to  look  out  for  him,  when  he's  needed  it  more  'n 
anything  else. 


14  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  I  ain't  blamin'  nobody.  Don't  know  as  I'd  looked 
out  for  him  myself,  if  he  hadn't  looked  so  helpless, 
there  'n  th'  ditch,  Gosh,  any  one  of  you'd  take  in  a 
dog  with  a  busted  leg  an'  try  to  fix  him  up ;  if  he  bit  at 
you  an'  scratched  and  tried  to  fight,  you'd  only  feel 
sorrier  for  him.  This  feller  .  .  .  he's  kind  of  a  dog, 
too.  Maybe  it'd  be  a  good  investment  for  us  to  look 
after  him  a  little  an'  see  if  we  can't  set  him  on  his  feet. 
We've  tried  makin'  an  example  of  him;  now  let's  try  to 
treat  him  like  any  of  you'd  treat  me,  if  I  was  down  an' 
out." 

He  looked  down  upon  the  figure  on  the  porch;  in  his 
voice  had  been  a  fine  humane  quality  that  set  the  muscles 
of  the  listening  woman's  throat  contracting. 

"  Say,  Bruce,  he's  bleedin' !  " 

On  the  man's  announced  discovery  the  group  outside 
again  became  compact  about  the  unconscious  man  and 
the  tall  cowboy  squatted  beside  him  quickly. 

"  Get  back  out  of  th'  light,  boys,"  he  said,  quietly, 
and  the  curious  men  moved.  "  Hum  .  .  .  I'm  a 
sheepherder,  if  somebody  ain't  nicked  him  in  th'  arm, 
boys!     I'll  be  — 

"  Say,  he  must  of  laid  on  that  arm  an'  stopped  th' 
blood.  It's  clotted.  .  .  .  Oh,  damn!  It's  bleedin' 
worse.  Say,  I'll  have  to  get  him  inside  where  we  can 
have  him  fixed  up  before  that  breaks  open  again. 
Wonder  how  much  he's  bled — " 

He  rose  and  moved  to  the  door,  pulled  open  the 
screen  quickly.     He  made  one  step  across  the  threshold 


SOME  MEN  15 

and  then  paused  between  strides,  for  before  him  in 
the  darkness  of  the  hallway  a  woman's  face  stood  out 
like  a  cameo.  It  was  white,  made  whiter  by  the  few 
feeble  rays  of  the  light  outside  that  struggled  into  the 
entry;  the  eyes  were  great,  dark  splotches,  the  lips  were 
parted;  one  hand  was  at  the  chin  and  about  the  whole 
suggested  posture  of  her  body  was  a  tensity,  an  anxiety, 
a  helplessness  that  startled  the  man  .  .  .  that,  and  her 
beauty.  For  a  moment  they  stood  so,  face  to  face,  the 
one  in  silhouette,  the  other  in  black  and  white;  the  one 
surprised,  only,  but  the  other  shrinking  in  terror. 

"  I  .  .  .  he.  .  .  ." 

Then,  giving  no  articulate  coherence  to  the  idea  that 
was  in  his  mind,  Bruce  Bayard  stepped  through  the 
doorway  to  his  left  and  entered  the  office,  as  though 
he  had  not  seen  the  woman  at  all.  He  looked  about, 
returned  to  the  hallway,  gazed  almost  absently  at  the 
stairway  where  he  had  seen  that  troubled  countenance 
and  which  was  now  a  blank,  hesitated  a  moment  and 
stepped  out  to  join  the  others. 

"  I  heard  somebody  shoot,  when  we  was  comin'  up 
from  th'  depot,"  someone  was  saying  when  Bayard 
broke  in: 

"  Nobody  here.     Anybody  seen  Charley?  " 

"  Here's  his  dad,"  Clary  said,  as  a  fat,  wheezing 
man  made  his  way  importantly  into  the  group. 

"  Uncle,  I  want  to  get  a  room,"  Bayard  said, 
"  to  take  this  here  man  to  so  I  can  wash  him  up  an' 
look  after  his  arm.     He's  been  shot.     I  passed  Doc 


16  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

on  th'  road  goin'  out  when  I  come  in,  so  I'll  just  try  my 
hand  as  a  veterinary  myself.     Can  you  fix  me  up?  " 

"All  right!  Right  here!  Bring  him  in.  I've  got 
a  room;  a  nice  dollar  room,"  the  man  wheezed  as  he 
stumped  into  the  building.  "  No  disturbance,  mind, 
but  I've  got  a  room  .  .  .  dollar  room  .  .  ." —  and 
the  screen  door  slapped  shut  behind  him. 

"  He  won't  die  on  you,  Bruce,"  the  man  with  a  mous- 
tache said,  straightening,  after  inspecting  the  ragged, 
dirt-filled  wound,  and  laughing  lightly.  "  It  just  stung 
him  a  little.  There's  a  lot  of  disorderly  conduct  left  in 
him  yet,  an'  it's  a  wonder  he  ain't  been  ventilated  be- 
fore." 

"  Yeah.  .  .  .  Well,  we'll  take  him  up  and  look  him 
over,"  Bayard  said,  his  face  serious,  and  stooped  to 
gather  the  burden  in  his  arms. 

"  Want  any  help,  Bruce?  "  Tommy  asked. 

"  Not  on  this  trip,  thanks.  A  good  sleep  and  a  stiff 
cussin'  out  '11  help  a  little  I  guess.  Mebbe  he's  learnt 
a  lesson  an'  he  may  go  back  home  an'  behave  himself." 

He  shouldered  open  the  screen  door  and,  led  by  the 
wheezing  landlord  who  carried  a  lamp  at  a  reckless 
angle  in  his  trembling  hand,  started  clumping  up  the  re- 
sounding stairway,  while  the  group  that  had  been  about 
the  lamp-post  drifted  off  into  the  darkness.  Only  the 
sorrel  horse,  Abe,  remained,  bridle-reins  down,  one 
hip  slumped,  great,  intelligent  eyes  watching  occa- 
sional figures  that  passed,  ears  moving  to  catch  the  scat- 
tered sounds  that  went  up  toward  the  Arizona  stars. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    LODGER    NEXT   DOOR 

"  Now,  this  is  fine,  Uncle,"  Bayard  said,  as  he  stood 
erect  and  surveyed  the  lax  body  he  had  deposited  on  the 
bed. 

His  great  height  made  the  low,  tiny  room  seem 
lower,  smaller,  and  in  the  pale  lamplight  the  fat  hotel 
proprietor  peered  up  into  his  face  with  little  greedy 
green  eyes,  chewing  briskly  with  his  front  teeth,  scratch- 
the  fringe  of  red  whiskers  speculatively. 

"  Well,  Bayard,  you're  all  right,"  he  blurted  out, 
huskily,  as  if  he  had  reached  that  decision  only  after 
lengthy  debate.  "  Th'  room  's  a  dollar,  but  I'll  wait 
till  mornin'  as  a  favor  to  you.  I  wouldn't  trust  most 
cowboys,  but  your  reputation's  gild-edged,  fine !  " 

"  Thanks  !  Seein'  nobody's  around  to  overhear,  I'll 
take  a  chance  an'  return  th'  compliment." 

And  as  the  other,  turning  in  the  doorway,  looked 
back  to  determine,  if  he  could,  the  meaning  of  that 
last  remark,  Bayard  stooped  and  gingerly  lifted  the 
wounded  forearm  from  which  the  sleeve  had  been  rolled 
back. 

"  What  a  lookin'  human  bein' !  "  he  whispered 
slowly,  a  moment  later,  shaking  his  head  and  letting 

17 


18  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

his  whole-hearted  disgust  find  expression  in  deep  lines 
about  his  mouth,  as  he  scanned  the  bloated,  bruised, 
muddied  face  below  him.  "  You've  got  just  about  as 
low  down,  Pardner,  as  anybody  can  get!  Lord,  that 
face  of  yourn  would  scare  the  Devil  himself  .  .  . 
even  if  it  is  his  own  work!  " 

He  kicked  out  of  his  chaps,  flung  off  jumper  and 
vest,  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and,  turning  to  the  rickety 
washstand,  sloshed  water  into  the  bowl  from  the 
cracked  pitcher  and  vigorously  applied  lather  to  his 
hands  and  forearms.  From  the  next  room  came  the 
sounds  of  a  person  moving;  the  creak  of  a  board,  the 
tinkle  of  a  glass,  even  the  low  brushing  of  a  garment 
being  hung  on  a  hook,  for  the  partitions  were  of  inch 
boards  covered  only  by  wallpaper. 

"  Th'  privacies  of  this  here  establishment  ain't  ex- 
actly perfect,  are  they?"  the  man  asked,  raising  his 
voice  and  smiling.  "  I've  got  a  friend  here  who  needs 
to  have  things  done  for  him  an'  he  may  wake  up  and 
object,  but  it  ain't  nothin'  serious  so  don't  let  us  dis- 
turb your  sleep  any  more'n  you  can  help,"  he  added  and 
paused,  stooped  over,  to  listen  for  an  answer. 

None  came;  no  further  sound  either;  the  person  in 
the  other  room  seemed  to  be  listening,  too.  Bayard, 
after  the  interval  of  silence,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
filled  the  bowl  with  clean  water,  placed  it  on  a  wooden- 
bottomed  chair  which  held  the  lamp  and  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  with  soap  and  towels  beside  him. 

"  I'll  wash  out  this  here  nick,  first,"  he  muttered. 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  19 

"  Then,  I'll  scrub  up  that  ugly  mug  .  .  .  Ugh!  "  He 
made  a  wry  face  as  he  again  looked  at  the  distorted, 
smeared  countenance. 

He  bathed  the  forearm  carefully,  then  centered  his 
attention  on  the  wound. 

"  Ho-ho !  Went  deeper  than  I  thought.  .  .  .  Full 
of  dirt  an'  .  .  .  clot  .  .   .  an'.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  his  muttering  and  left  off  his  bathing  of 
the  wound  suddenly  and  clamped  his  fingers  above  the 
gash,  for,  as  he  had  washed  away  the  clotted  blood  and 
caked  dirt,  a  thin,  sharp  stream  of  blood  had  spurted 
out  from  the  ragged  tear  in  the  flesh. 

"He  got  an  artery,  did  he?  Huh!  When  you 
dropped,  you  laid  on  that  arm  or  you'd  be  eatin'  break- 
fast to-morrow  in  a  place  considerable  hotter  than 
Arizona,"  Bayard  muttered. 

He  looked  about  him  calculatingly  as  though  wonder- 
ing what  was  best  to  do  first,  and  the  man  on  the  bed 
stirred  uneasily. 

"  Lay  still,  you !  " 

The  other  moaned  and  squirmed  and  threatened  to 
jerk  his  arm  free. 

"  You  don't  amount  to  much,  Pardner,  but  I  can't 
hold  you  still  and  play  doctor  by  myself  if  .  .  . 

"  Say,  friend," —  raising  his  voice.  "  You,  in  th' 
next  room;  would  you  mind  comin'  in  here  a  minute? 
I've  took  down  more  rope  than  I  handle  right  easy." 

He  turned  his  head  to  listen  better  and  through  the 
thin  partition  came  again  the  sound  of  movements. 


20  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Feet  stepped  quickly,  lightly,  on  the  noisy  floor;  a  chair 
was  shoved  from  one  place  to  another,  a  door  opened, 
the  feet  came  down  the  hall,  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  Bayard  waited  swung  back  .  .  .  and  Ann  Lytton 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  held  on  one  another.  The 
woman's  lips  were  compressed,  her  nostrils  dilated  in 
excitement,  her  blue  eyes  wide  and  apprehensive,  al- 
though she  struggled  to  repress  all  these  evidences  of 
emotional  disturbance.  The  man's  jaw  slacked  in 
astonishment,  then  tightened,  and  his  chest  swelled  with 
a  deep  breath  of  pleased  surprise;  he  experienced  a 
strange  tremor  and  subconsciously  he  told  himself  that 
she  was  as  rare  looking  as  he  had  thought  she  must  be 
from  the  impression  he  had  received  down  in  the  dark 
hallway. 

"  Why  .  .  .  why,  I  didn't  think  you  ...  it  might 
be  a  lady  in  there,  Miss,"  he  said  in  slow  astonishment. 
"  I  thought  it  was  a  man  .  .  .  because  ladies  don't 
often  get  in  here.  I  .  .  .  this  is  a  nasty  mess  an' 
maybe  you  better  not  tackle  it  ...  if  ...  if  you 
could  call  somebody  to  help  me  .  .  .  Nora,  th'  girl 
downstairs,  would  come,  Miss  — " 

"  I  can  help  you,"  she  said,  and  a  flush  rushed  into 
her  cheeks,  which  at  once  relieved  and  accentuated  their 
pallor.  It  was  as  though  he  had  accused  her  of  a 
weakness  that  she  resented. 

Bayard  looked  her  over  through  a  silent  moment; 
then  moved  one  foot  quickly  and,  eyes  still  holding  her 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  21 

gaze,  his  left  hand  groped  for  a  towel,  found  it,  shook 
it  out  and  spread  it  over  the  face  of  the  drunken, 
wounded  man  he  had  called  her  to  help  him  tend. 

"  He  ain't  a  beauty,  Miss,"  he  explained,  relieved 
that  the  countenance  was  concealed  from  her.  "  I  hate 
to  look  at  him  myself  an'  I'd  hate  to  have  a  girl  .  .  . 
like  you  have  to  look  at  him  .  .  .  I'm  sure  he  would, 
too," —  as  though  he  did  not  actually  mean  the  last. 

The  woman  moved  to  his  side  then,  eyes  held  on  the 
wound  by  evident  effort.  It  was  as  if  she  were  im- 
pelled to  turn  her  gaze  to  that  covered  face  and  fought 
against  the  desire  with  all  the  will  she  could  muster. 

"  You  see,  Miss,  this  artery's  been  cut  an'  I've  got 
my  thumb  shut  down  on  it  here,"  he  indicated.  "  This 
gent  got  shot  up  a  trifle  to-night  an'  we  —  you  an'  me 
—  have  got  to  fix  him  up.  I  can't  do  it  alone  because 
he's  bleedin'  an'  he's  lost  more  than's  healthy  for  him 
now. 

"  It  sure  is  fine  of  you  to  come,  Miss." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  and  steadily  yet  without 
giving  offense.  It  was  as  though  he  had  character- 
ized this  woman  for  himself,  was  thinking  more  about 
the  effect  on  her  of  the  work  they  were  to  do  than  of 
that  work  itself.  He  was  interested  in  this  newcomer; 
he  wanted  to  know  about  her.  That  was  obvious. 
He  watched  her  as  he  talked  and  his  manner  made  her 
know  that  he  was  very  gentle,  very  considerate  of  her 
peace  of  mind,  in  spite  of  the  quality  about  him  which 
she  could  not  understand,  which  was  his  desire  to  know 


22  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

how  she  would  act  in  this  unfamiliar,  trying  situation. 

"  Now,  you  take  that  towel  and  roll  it  up,"  he  was 
saying.  "  Yes,  th'  long  way.  .  .  .  Then,  bring  that 
stick  they  use  to  prop  up  th'  window  — " 

"  It's  a  tourniquet  you  want,"  she  broke  in. 

He  looked  up  at  her  again. 

"  Tourniquet.  .  .  .  Tourniquet,"  he  repeated,  to  fix 
the  new  word  in  his  mind.  "  Yes,  that's  what  I  want: 
to  shut  off  the  blood." 

She  folded  the  towel  and  brought  the  stick.  From 
her  audible  breathing  Bayard  knew  that  she  was  excited, 
but,  otherwise,  she  had  ceased  to  give  indication  of 
the  fact. 

"  Loop  it  around  and  tie  a  knot,"  he  said. 

"  Is  that  right?  "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  that  was  too 
calm,  too  well  controlled  for  the  circumstances. 

"Yes,  it's  all  right,  Miss.  How  about  you?" — a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  If  this  ...  if  you  don't  think 
you  can  stand  it  to  fuss  with  him  — "  he  began,  but 
she  cut  him  off  with  a  look  that  contained  something  of 
a  quality  of  reassurance,  but  which  was  more  obviously 
a  rebuff. 

"  I  said  I  could  help  you.  Why  do  you  keep  doubt- 
ing me?  " 

"  I  don't;  I'm  tryin'  to  be  careful  of  your  feelings," 
—  averting  his  eyes  that  she  might  not  see  the  quick 
fire  of  appreciation  in  them.  "  Will  you  tighten  it 
with  that  stick,  now,  Miss?  " 

The  man  on  the  bed  breathed  loudly,  uncouthly,  with 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  23 

now  and  then  a  short,  sharp  moan.  The  sour  smell 
of  stale  liquor  was  about  him;  the  arm  and  hand  that 
had  been  washed  were  the  only  clean  parts  of  his 
body. 

"  Now  you  twist  it,"  Bayard  said,  when  she  was 
ready,  although  he  could  have  done  it  easily  with  his 
free  hand. 

She  grasped  the  stick  with  determination  and,  as  she 
turned  it  quickly  to  take  up  the  slack  in  the  loop,  Bayard 
leaned  back,  part  of  his  weight  on  the  elbow  which 
kept  the  legs  of  the  unconscious  man  from  threshing  too 
violently  as  the  contrivance  shut  down  on  his  arm. 
His  attention,  however,  was  not  for  their  patient;  it 
was  centered  on  the  girl's  hands  as  they  manipulated 
stick  and  towel.  They  were  the  smallest  hands,  the 
trimmest,  he  had  ever  seen.  The  fingers  were  incred- 
ibly fine-boned  and  about  them  was  a  nicety,  a  finish, 
that  was  beyond  his  experience;  yet,  they  were  not 
weak  hands;  rather,  competent  looking.  He  watched 
their  quick  play,  the  spring  of  the  tendons  in  her  white 
wrist  and,  with  a  new  interest,  detected  a  smooth  white 
mark  about  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand  where  a 
ring  had  been.  He  looked  into  her  intent  face  again, 
wondering  what  sort  of  ring  that  had  been  and  why  it 
was  no  longer  there;  then,  forgot  all  about  it  in  seeing 
the  tight  line  of  her  mouth  and  finding  delight  in  the 
splendid  curve  of  her  chin. 

"  You  hate  to  do  it,"  he  thought,  "  but  you're  goin' 
to  see  it  through!  " 


24  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"There!"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  Is  that 
tight  enough?  " 

He  looked  quickly  away  from  her  face  to  the  wound 
and  released  the  pressure  of  his  thumb. 

"  Not  quite.     It  oozes  a  little." 

He  liked  the  manner  in  which  she  moved  her  head 
forward  to  indicate  her  resolve,  when  she  forced  the 
cloth  even  more  tightly  about  the  arm.  The  injured 
man  cried  aloud  and  sought  to  roll  over,  and  Bayard 
saw  the  girl's  mouth  set  in  a  firmer  cast,  but  in  other 
ways  she  bore  herself  as  if  there  had  been  no  sound  or 
movement  to  frighten  or  disturb  her. 

"  That'll  do,"  he  told  her,  watching  the  result  of  the 
pressure  carefully.  "  Now,  would  you  tear  that  pillow 
slip  into  strips  wide  enough  for  a  bandage?"  She 
shook  the  pillow  from  the  casing.  "  That'll  tickle 
Uncle,  downstairs,"  he  added.  "  It's  worth  two  bits, 
but  he  can  charge  me  a  dollar  for  it." 

She  did  not  appear  to  hear  this  last;  just  went  on 
tearing  strips  with  hands  that  trembled  ever  so  little 
and  his  gray  eyes  lighted  with  a  peculiar  fire.  Weak- 
ness was  present  in  her,  the  weakness  of  inexperience, 
brought  on  by  the  sight  of  blood,  the  presence  of  a 
strange  man  of  a  strange  type,  the  proximity  of  that 
muttering,  filthy  figure  with  his  face  shrouded  from 
her;  but,  behind  that  weakness,  was  an  inherent 
strength,  a  determination  that  made  her  struggle  with 
all  her  faculties  to  hide  its  evidences;  and  that  courage 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  25 

was  the  quality  which  Bayard  had  sought  in  her.  Only, 
he  could  not  then  appreciate  its  true  proportions. 

"  Is  this  enough?  "  she  asked. 

"  Plenty.     I  can  manage  alone  now,  if — " 

"  But  I  might  as  well  help  you  through  with 
this!" 

She  had  again  detected  his  doubt  of  her,  discerned  his 
motive  in  giving  her  an  avenue  of  graceful  escape  from 
the  unpleasant  situation;  she  thought  that  he  still  mis- 
trusted her  stamina  and  her  stubborn  refusal  to  give 
way  to  any  weakness  set  the  words  on  her  lips  to  cut 
him  short. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to,"  he  said,  soberly,  "  you  can 
keep  this  thing  tight,  while  I  wash  this  hole  out  an' 
bind  it  up.  ...  I  wouldn't  look  at  it,  if  I  was  you; 
you  ain't  used  to  it,  you  know." 

He  looked  her  in  the  eye,  on  that  last  advice,  for  a 
moment.  She  understood  fully  and,  as  she  took  the 
stick  in  her  hand  to  keep  the  blood  flow  checked,  she 
averted  her  face.  For  a  breath  he  looked  at  the  stray 
little  hairs  about  the  depression  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 
Then,  to  his  work. 

He  was  gentle  in  cleansing  the  wound,  but  he  could 
not  touch  the  raw  flesh  without  giving  pain  and  still 
accomplish  his  end,  and,  on  the  first  pressure  of  his 
fingers,  the  man  writhed  and  twitched  and  jerked  at  the 
arm,  drawing  his  knees  up  spasmodically. 

"  I'll  have  to  set  on  him,  Miss,"  Bayard  said. 


26  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

He  did  so,  straddling  the  man's  thighs  and  leaning  to 
the  right,  close  against  the  woman's  stooping  body. 
He  grasped  the  cold  wrist  with  one  hand  and  washed 
the  jagged  hurt  quickly,  thoroughly.  The  man  he 
held  protested  inarticulately  and  struggled  to  move 
about.  Once,  the  towel  that  hid  his  face  was  thrown 
off  and  Bayard  replaced  it,  glad  that  the  girl's  back 
had  been  turned  so  she  did  not  see. 

It  was  the  crude,  cruel  surgery  of  the  frontier  and 
once,  towards  the  end,  the  tortured  man  lifted  his  thick, 
scarcely  human  voice  in  a  cursing  phrase  and  Bayard, 
glancing  sharply  at  the  woman,  murmured, 

u  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  .   .  .   for  him." 

"  That's  not  necessary,"  she  answered,  and  her 
whisper  was  thin,  weak. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  faint,  are  you?"  he  asked,  in 
quick  apprehension,  ceasing  his  work  to  peer  anxiously 
at  her. 

"  No.  .  .  .  No,  but  hurry,  please;  it  is  very  unpleas- 
ant." 

He  nodded  his  head  in  assent  and  began  the  bandag- 
ing, hurriedly.  He  made  the  strips  of  cloth  secure 
with  deft  movements  and  then  said, 

"  There,  Miss,  it's  all  over!" 

She  straightened  and  turned  from  him  and  put  a 
hand  quickly  to  her  forehead,  drew  a  deep  breath  as  of 
exasperation  and  moved  an  uncertain  step  or  two  to- 
ward the  door. 

"  All  right,"  she  said,  with  a  half  laugh,  stopping  and 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  27 

turning  about.  "I  was  afraid  .  .  .  you  see!  I'm 
not  accustomed.  .  .  ." 

Bayard  removed  his  weight  from  the  other  man  and 
sat  again  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  Lots  of  men,  men  out  here  in  this  country,  would 
have  felt  the  same  way  .  .  .  only  worse,"  he  said,  re- 
assuringly. "  It  takes  lots  of  sand  to  fuss  with  blood 
an'  man  meat  until  you  get  used  to  it.  You've  got  the 
sand,  Miss,  an'  I  sure  appreciate  what  you've  done. 
He  will,  too." 

She  turned  to  meet  his  gaze  and  he  saw  that  her  face 
was  colorless  and  strained,  but  she  smiled  and  asked, 

"  I  couldn't  do  less,  could  I  ?  " 

"  You  couldn't  do  more,"  he  said,  staring  hard  at 
her,  giving  the  impression  that  his  mind  was  not  on 
what  he  was  saying.  "  More  for  me  or  more  for 
.  .  .  a  carcass  like  that."  A  tremor  of  anger  was  in 
his  voice,  and  resentment  showed  in  his  expression  as  he 
turned  to  look  at  the  covered  face  of  the  heavily  breath- 
ing man.  "  It's  a  shame,  Miss,  to  make  your  kind 
come  under  the  same  roof  with  a  ...  a  thing  like  he 
is!" 

After  a  moment  she  asked, 

"  Is  he  so  very  bad,  then?  " 

"  As  bad  as  men  get  .  .  .  and  the  best  of  us  are 
awful  sinful." 

"  Do  you  ...  do  you  think  men  ever  get  so  bad 
that  anyone  can  be  hurt  by  being  ...  by  coming  under 
the  same  roof  with  them?  " 


28  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

He  shook  his  head  and  smiled  again. 

"  I'd  say  yes,  if  it  wasn't  that  I'd  picked  this  hombre 
out  of  th'  ditch  an'  brought  him  here  an'  played  doctor 
to-night.  You  never  can  tell  what  you'll  believe  until 
the  time  comes  when  you've  got  to  believe  something." 

A  silent  interval,  which  the  woman  broke. 

"  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  now?  " 

He  knew  that  she  wanted  to  go,  yet  some  quality 
about  her  made  him  suspect  that  she  wanted  to  stay  on, 
too. 

"  No,  Miss,  nothin'  ..."  he  answered.  "  I've 
got  to  go  tend  to  my  horse.  He's  such  a  baby  that  he 
won't  leave  his  tracks  for  anybody  so  long's  he  knows 
I'm  here,  so  I  can't  send  anybody  else  to  look  after 
him.  But  you've  done  enough.  I'll  wait  a  while  till 
somebody  else  comes  along  to  watch  — " 

"  No,  no  !  let  me  stay  here  .   .  .  with  him." 

"But—" 

"  I  came  here  to  help  you.  Won't  you  let  me  go 
through  with  it?  " 

He  thought  again  that  it  was  her  pride  forcing  her 
on;  he  could  not  know  that  the  prompting  in  her  was 
something  far  deeper,  something  tragic.     He  said: 

"  Why  if  you  want  to,  of  course  you  can.  I  won't 
be  gone  but  a  minute.  I've  let  up  on  this  pressure  a 
little;  we'll  keep  letting  up  on  it  gradual  .  .  .  I've 
done  this  thing  before.  He's  got  to  be  watched, 
though,  so  he  don't  pull  the  bandages  off  and  start  her 
bleeding  again." 


THE  LODGER  NEXT  DOOR  29 

The  woman  seated  herself  on  the  chair  as  he  turned 
to  go. 

"  It'll  only  be  a  minute,"  he  assured  her  again,  hesi- 
tating in  the  doorway.  "  I  wouldn't  go  at  all,  only, 
when  my  horse  is  the  kind  of  a  pal  he  is,  I  can't  let  him 
go  hungry.     See?  " 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  but  her  tone  implied  that  she  did 
not,  that  such  devotion  between  man  and  beast  was 
quite  incomprehensible  ...  or  else  that  she  had 
given  his  word  no  heed  at  all,  had  only  waited  impa- 
tiently for  him  to  go. 

He  strode  down  the  hallway  and  she  marked  his 
every  footfall,  heard  him  go  stumping  and  ringing 
down  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  heard  him  leave  the 
porch  and  held  her  breath  to  hear  him  say, 

"  Well,  Old  Timer,  I  didn't  plan  to  be  so  long." 

Then,  the  sound  of  shod  hoofs  crossing  the  street  at 
a  gallop. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  let  her  head  bow  slowly  and 
whispered, 

"  Oh,  God  .   .  .  there  is  manhood  left!  " 

She  sat  so  a  long  interval,  suffering  stamped  on  her 
fine  forehead,  indicated  in  the  pink  and  white  knots 
formed  from  her  clenched  hands.  Then,  her  lips 
partly  opened  and  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
long  at  the  covered  face  of  the  man  on  the  bed.  Her 
breath  was  swift  and  shallow  and  her  attitude  that  of 
one  who  nerves  herself  for  an  ordeal.  Once,  she 
looked  down  at  the  hand  on  the  bed  near  her  and 


30  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

touched  with  her  own  the  hardened,  soiled  fingers, 
then  gave  a  shake  to  her  head  that  was  almost  a  shud- 
der, straightened  in  her  chair  and  muttered  aloud, 

"  He  said  ...  I  had  the  sand.  .  .   ." 

She  leaned  forward,  stretched  a  hand  to  the  towel 
which  covered  the  man's  face,  hesitated  just  an  instant, 
caught  her  breath,  lifted  the  shrouding  cloth  and  gave 
a  long,  shivering  sigh  as  she  sat  back  in  her  chair. 

At  that  moment  Bruce  Bayard  in  the  corral  across 
the  street,  pulled  the  bridle  over  his  sorrel's  ears.  He 
slung  the  contrivance  on  one  arm  and  held  the  animal's 
hot,  white  muzzle  in  his  hands  a  moment.  He 
squeezed  so  tightly  that  the  horse  shook  his  head  and 
lifted  a  fore  foot  in  protest  and  then,  alarmed,  backed 
quickly  away. 

"...  I  didn't  intend  it,  Abe,"  the  man  muttered. 
".  .  .  I  was  thinkin'  about  somethin'  else." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   REVELATION 

When  Bayard  returned  to  the  Manzanita  House,  he 
ran  up  the  stairs  with  an  eagerness  that  was  not  in  the 
least  inspired  by  a  desire  to  return  to  his  watching  over 
the  man  he  had  chosen  to  succor.  He  strode  down 
the  hallway  and  into  the  room  with  his  keen  anticipa- 
tion thinly  disguised  by  a  sham  concern.  And  within 
the  doorway  he  halted  abruptly,  for  the  woman  who 
had'helped  him,  whose  presence  there  had  brought  him 
back  from  his  horse  on  a  run,  sat  at  the  bedside  with 
her  hands  limp  in  her  lap  and  about  her  bearing  an  air 
that  quite  staggered  him.  Her  face  was  as  nearly  ex- 
pressionless as  a  human  countenance  can  become.  It 
was  as  if  something  had  occurred  which  had  taken  from 
her  all  emotion,  all  ability  to  respond  to  any  mental  or 
sensory  influence.  For  the  moment,  she  was  crushed, 
and  so  completely  that  even  her  reflexes  did  not  react 
to  the  horror  of  the  revelation.  She  did  not  look  at 
Bayard,  did  not  move;  she  might  have  been  without 
the  sense  of  sight  or  hearing;  she  did  not  even  breathe 
perceptibly;  just  sat  there  with  a  fixity  that  frightened 
him. 

31 


32  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"Why,  Miss!"  he  cried  in  confused  alarm.  "I 
...  I  wouldn't  left  you  — " 

She  roused  on  his  cry  and  shook  her  head,  and  he 
thought  she  wanted  him  to  stop,  so  he  stood  there 
through  an  awkward  moment,  waiting  for  her  to  say 
more. 

"  Course,  it  was  too  much  for  you !  "  he  concluded 
aloud,  self-reproachfully,  when  she  did  not  speak. 
"  You're  tired;  this  .  .  .  this  takin'  care  of  this  booze- 
soaked  carcass  was  too  much  to  ask  of  you.     I  — " 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  in  a  dry,  flat  voice,  looking  up 
at  him  appealingly,  mastering  her  voice  with  a  heroic 
effort.  "  Don't,  please !  This  .  .  .  This  booze- 
soaked  .  .  .  carcass  .  .  . 

"  He  is  my  husband." 

The  words  with  which  she  ended  came  in  a  listless 
whisper;  she  made  no  further  sound,  and  the  hissing 
of  Bayard's  breath,  as  it  slipped  out  between  his  teeth, 
was  audible. 

All  that  he  had  said  against  that  other  man  came 
back  to  him,  all  the  epithets  he  had  used,  all  the  pains 
he  had  taken  to  impress  on  this  woman,  his  wife,  a  sense 
of  the  utter  degradation,  the  vileness,  of  Ned  Lytton. 
For  the  instant,  he  was  filled  with  regret  because  of 
his  rash  speech;  the  next,  he  was  overwhelmed  by 
realizing  that  all  he  had  said  was  true  and  that  he 
had  been  justified  in  saying  those  things  of  this  woman's 
husband.     The  thought  unpoised  him. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  was  married,"  he  said,  slowly, 


A  REVELATION  33 

distinctly,  his  voice  unsteady,  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  putting  what  transpired  in  his  mind 
into  words.     "  Especially  ...  to  a  thing  like  that!  " 

The  gesture  of  his  one  arm  which  indicated  the 
prostrate  figure  was  eloquent  of  the  contempt  he  felt 
and  the  posture  of  his  body,  bent  forward  from  his 
hips,  was  indication  of  his  sincerity.  He  was  so  in- 
tense emotionally  that  he  could  not  realize  that  his  last 
words  might  lash  the  suffering  woman  cruelly.  The 
thought  was  in  him,  so  strong,  so  revolting,  that  it 
had  to  come  out.  He  could  not  have  restrained  it  had 
he  consciously  appreciated  the  hurt  that  its  expression 
would  give  the  woman. 

She  stared  up  at  him,  her  numb  brain  wondering 
clumsily  at  the  storm  indicated  in  his  eyes,  about  his 
mouth,  and  they  held  so  a  moment  before  she  sat  back 
in  her  chair,  weakly,  one  wrist  against  her  forehead. 

"  Here,  come  over  by  the  window  .  .  .  never  mind 
him,"  he  said,  almost  roughly,  stepping  to  her  side, 
grasping  her  arm  and  shaking  it. 

Ten  minutes  before  the  careful  watching  of  that  un- 
conscious man  had  been  the  one  important  thing  of  the 
night,  but  now  it  was  an  inconsequential  affair,  a  bother. 
Ten  minutes  before  his  interest  in  the  woman  had  been 
a  light,  transient  fancy;  now  he  was  more  deeply  con- 
cerned with  her  trouble  than  he  ever  had  been  with  an 
affair  of  his  own.  He  lifted  the  bandaged  arm  and 
placed  a  pillow  beneath  it,  almost  carelessly;  then  closed 
the  door.     He  turned  about  and  looked  at  Ann  Lytton, 


34  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

who  had  gone  to  stand  by  the  window,  her  back  to  him, 
face  in  her  hands. 

He  walked  across  and  halted,  towering  over  her, 
looking  helplessly  down  at  the  back  of  her  bowed  head. 
His  arms  were  limp  at  his  sides,  until  she  swayed  as 
though  she  would  fall,  and,  then,  he  reached  out  to 
support  her,  grasping  her  shoulders  gently  with  his 
big  palms;  when  she  steadied,  he  left  his  hands  so, 
lifting  the  right  one  awkwardly  to  stroke  her  shivering 
shoulder.  They  stood  silent  many  minutes,  the  man 
suffering  with  the  woman,  suffering  largely  because  of 
his  inability  to  bear  a  portion  of  her  grief.  After  a 
time,  he  forced  her  about  with  his  hands  and,  when  she 
had  turned  halfway  around,  she  lifted  her  face  to  look 
into  his.  She  blinked  and  strained  her  eyes  open  and 
laughed  mirthlessly,  then  was  silent,  with  the  knuckles 
of  her  fist  pressed  tightly  against  her  mouth. 

"  I  am  so  glad  ...  so  glad  that  it  was  you,  .  .  ." 
she  said,  huskily,  after  a  wait  in  which  she  mastered 
herself,  the  thought  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind 
finding  the  first  expression.  "  I  heard  you  say,  down 
there,  that  he  was  a  cripple  and  that  .  .  .  that's  what 
he  is  .  .  .  what  I  thought.  You  .  .  .  you  under- 
stand, don't  you?  A  woman  in  my  place  has  to  think 
something  like  that!" — in  unconscious  confession  to 
a  weakness.  "  I  heard  you  say  he  was  a  cripple  .  .  . 
the  man  you  were  carrying  .  .  .  and  I  thought  it 
must  be  Ned,  because  I've  had  to  think  that,  too.  You 
understand?     Don't  you?  " 


A  REVELATION  35 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  the  directness  of  a 
pleading  child  and,  gripping  her  shoulders,  he  nodded. 

"  I  think  I  understand,  ma'am.  I  .  .  .  and  I  hope 
you  can  forget  all  th'  mean  things  I've  said  about  him 
to-night.     I  — " 

"  And  when  you  called  me  in  here,"  she  interrupted, 
heedless  of  his  attempt  at  apology,  "  I  was  afraid  at 
first,  because  something  told  me  it  was  he.  I  had 
come  all  the  way  from  Maine  to  see  him;  to  find  out 
about  him,  and  I  didn't  want  to  blind  myself  after  that. 
I  wanted  to  know  .  .   .  the  worst." 

"  You  have,  ma'am,"  he  said,  grimly,  and  took  his 
hands  from  her  shoulders  and  turned  away. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  was  Ned  from  the  very  first,  but  out 
there,  with  those  other  men  around,  I  .  .  .  couldn't 
make  myself  look  at  him.  And  after  that  the  suspense 
was  horrible.  I  was  glad  when  you  called  me  to  help 
you  because  that  made  me  face  it  .  .  .  and  even  know- 
ing what  I  know  now  is  better  in  some  ways  than  un- 
certainty. I  ...  I  might  have  dodged,  anyhow,  if 
you  hadn't  made  me  feel  you  were  trying  to  find  out 
how  far  I  would  go  .  .  .  what  I  would  do.  Your 
doubting  me  made  me  doubt  myself  and  that  .  .  .  that 
drove  me  on. 

"  It  took  a  lot  of  courage  to  look  at  his  .  .  .  face. 
But  I  had  to  know.  I  had  to;  I'd  come  all  this  way  to 
know." 

She  hesitated,  staring  absently,  and  Bayard  waited 
in  silence  for  her  to  go  on. 


36  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  hear  those  men  talking 
about  him  the  way  they  did,  swearing  at  him  and  laugh- 
ing. .  .  .  And  then  to  hear  someone  protecting  him 
because  he  is  weak," — with  a  brave  effort  at  a  smile. 
"  That's  what  people  in  the  East,  his  own  people,  even, 
have  done;  and  I  .  .  .  I  had  to  stand  up  for  him  when 
everything,  even  he,  was  against  me.  .  .   . 

"  I'd  hoped  that  out  here,  at  the  mine,  he'd  be  dif- 
ferent, that  he'd  behave,  that  people  would  come  to  re- 
spect and  like  him.  I'd  hoped  for  that  right  up  to  the 
time  I  saw  you  coming  across  the  street  with  him.  I 
felt  it  must  be  he.  I  hadn't  heard  from  him  in  months, 
not  a  line.  That's  why  I  came  out  here.  And  I  guess 
that  in  my  heart  I'd  expected  to  find  him  like  that. 
The  uncertainty,  that  was  the  worst.  .  .  . 

"  Peculiar,  isn't  it,  why  I  should  have  been  uncer- 
tain? I  should  have  admitted  what  I  felt  intuitively, 
but  I  always  have  hoped,  I  always  will  hope  that  he'll 
come  through  it  sometime.  That  hope  has  kept  me 
from  telling  myself  that  it  must  be  the  same  with  him 
out  here  as  it  was  back  there ;  that's  why  I  fooled  myself 
until  I  saw  you  .  .  .  with  him. 

"  And  I'm  so  glad  it  happened  to  be  you  who  picked 
him  up.     You  understand,  you  — " 

Emotion  choked  off  her  words. 

Bayard  walked  from  her,  returned  to  the  bedside  and 
stared  down  at  the  inert  figure  there.  He  was  in  a 
tumult.  The  contrast  between  this  man  and  wife  was 
too  dreadful  to  be  comprehended  in  calm.     Lytton  was 


A  REVELATION  37 

the  lowest  human  being  he  had  ever  known,  degener- 
ated to  an  organism  that  lived  solely  to  satiate  its 
most  unworthy  appetites.  Ann,  the  woman  crying  yon- 
der, was  quite  the  most  beautiful  creature  on  whom 
he  had  ever  looked  and,  though  he  had  seen  her  for 
the  first  time  no  more  than  an  hour  before,  her  charm 
had  touched  every  masculine  instinct,  had  gripped  him 
with  that  urge  which  draws  the  sexes  one  to  another 
.  .  .  yet,  he  was  not  conscious  of  it.  She  was,  in  his 
eyes,  so  wonderful,  so  removed  from  his  world,  that 
he  could  not  presume  to  recognize  her  attraction  as  for 
himself.  She  was  a  distant,  unattainable  creature,  one 
to  serve,  to  admire;  perhaps,  sometime,  to  worship 
reverently  and  that  was  the  fact  which  set  the  blood 
congesting  in  his  head  when  he  looked  down  at  the 
waster  for  whom  she  had  traveled  across  a  continent 
that  she  might  suffer  like  this.  Lytton  was  attainable, 
was  comprehensible,  and  Bayard  was  urged  to  make 
him  suffer  in  atonement  for  the  wretchedness  he  had 
brought  to  this  woman  who  loved  him.  .  .  .  Who. 
.  .  .  loved  him? 

The  man  turned  to  look  at  Ann  again,  his  lower 
lip  caught  speculatively  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. 

"  Now,  I  suppose  the  thing  to  do  is  to  plan,  to  make 
some  sort  of  arrangements  .  .  .  now  that  I  have  found 
him,"  she  said  in  a  strained  voice,  bracing  her  shoul- 
ders, lifting  a  hand  to  brush  a  lock  of  hair  back  from 
her  white,  blue-veined  temple. 


38  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

She  smiled  courageously  at  the  cowboy  who  ap- 
proached her  diffidently. 

"  I  came  out  here  to  find  out  what  was  going  on,  to 
help  him  if  he  were  succeeding,  to  .  .  .  help  him  if 
.  .   .  as  I  have  found  him." 

Her  directness  had  returned  and,  as  she  spoke,  she 
looked  Bayard  in  the  eye,  steadily. 

"  Well,  whatever  I  can  do,  ma'am,  I'm  anxious  to 
do,"  he  said,  repressing  himself  that  he  might  not  give 
ground  to  the  suspicion  that  he  was  forcing  himself  on 
her,  though  his  first  impulse  was  to  take  her  affairs  in 
hand  and  shield  her  from  the  trying  circumstances 
which  were  bound  to  follow.  "  I  can't  do  much  to 
help  you,  but  all  I  can  do  — " 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  do  anything  without  you," 
she  said,  simply,  letting  her  gaze  travel  over  his  big 
frame.  "  It's  so  far  away,  out  here,  from  anyone  I 
know  or  the  things  I  am  accustomed  to.  It's  .  .  . 
it's  too  wonderful,  finding  someone  out  here  who  under- 
stands Ned,  when  even  his  own  people  back  home 
didn't.  I  wonder  ...  is  it  asking  too  much  to  ask 
you  to  help  me  plan?  You  know  people  and  condi- 
tions.    I  don't." 

She  made  the  request  almost  timidly,  but  he  leaped 
at  the  opportunity  and  cried : 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  if  I  could  be  of  use  to  you,  I'd 
think  it  was  th'  finest  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me, 
ma'am.     I've  never  been  of  much  use  to  anybody  but 


A  REVELATION  39 

myself.  I  .  .  .  I'd  like  to  help  you!  "  His  manner 
was  so  wholly  boyish  that  she  impulsively  put  out  her 
hand  to  him. 

"  You're  kind  to  me,  so.  .  .  ." 

She  lost  the  rest  of  the  sentence  because  of  the  fierce- 
ness with  which  he  grasped  her  proffered  hand  and  for 
a  moment  his  gray  eyes  burned  into  hers  with  confusing 
intensity.  Then  he  straightened  and  looked  away 
with  an  inarticulate  word. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  to  do?  "  he  asked,  step- 
ping to  one  side  to  bring  a  chair  for  her. 

"  I  don't  know;  he's  in  a  frightful  .  .  .  I've  never 
seen  him  as  bad  as  this," —  her  voice  threatening  to 
break. 

"  An'  he'll  be  that  way  so  long  as  he's  near  that!  " 

He  held  his  hand  up  in  a  gesture  that  impelled  her 
to  listen  as  the  notes  from  the  saloon  piano  drifted  into 
the  little  room. 

"  He's  pretty  far  gone,  ma'am,  your  husband.  He 
ain't  got  a  whole  lot  of  strength,  an'  it  takes  strength  to 
show  will  power.  We  might  keep  him  away  from 
drinkin'  by  watching  him  all  the  time,  but  that  wouldn't 
do  much  good;  that  wouldn't  be  a  cure;  it  would  only 
be  delay,  and  wasting  our  time  and  foolin'  ourselves. 
He'd  ought  to  be  took  away  from  it,  a  long  ways  away 
from  it." 

"  That's  what  I've  thought.  Couldn't  I  take  him 
out  to  the  mine  — " 


40  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  His  mine  is  most  forty  miles  from  here,  ma'am." 

"  So  much  the  better,  isn't  it?  We'd  be  away  from 
all  this.     I  could  keep  him  there,  I  know." 

Bayard  regarded  her  critically  until  her  eyes  fell 
before  his. 

"  You  might  keep  him  there,  and  you  might  not.  I 
judge  you  didn't  have  much  control  over  him  in  th' 
East.  You  didn't  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  of  in- 
fluence with  him  by  letter," —  gently,  very  kindly,  yet 
impressively.  "  If  you  got  out  in  camp  all  alone  with 
him,  livin'  a  life  that's  new  to  you,  you  might  not  make 
good  there.  See  what  I  mean?  You'd  be  all  alone, 
cause  the  mine's  abandoned."  She  started  at  that. 
"  There'd  be  nobody  to  help  you  if  he  got  crazy  wild 
like  he'll  sure  get  before  he  comes  through.     You  — " 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  up  to  it?  Is  that  it?  "  she 
interrupted. 

He  looked  closely  at  her  before  he  answered. 

"  Ma'am,  if  a  woman  like  you  can't  keep  a  man 
straight  by  just  lovin'  him," — with  a  curious  flatness 
in  his  voice  — "  you  can't  do  it  no  way,  can  you?  " 

She  sat  silent,  and  he  continued  to  question  her  with 
his  gaze. 

"  I  judge  you've  tried  that  way,  from  what  you've 
told  me.  You've  been  pretty  faithful  on  the  job. 
You  .  .  .  you  do  love  him  yet,  don't  you?  "  he  asked, 
and  she  looked  up  with  a  catch  of  her  breath. 

"  I  do," —  dropping  her  eyes  quickly. 

The  man  paced  the  length  ,of  the  room  and  back 


A  REVELATION  41 

again  as  though  this  confession  had  altered  the  case 
and  presented  another  factor  for  his  consideration. 
But,  when  he  stopped  before  her,  he  only  said: 

"  You  can't  leave  him  in  town;  you  can't  take  him  to 
his  mine.  There  ain't  any  place  away  from  town  I 
know  of  where  they'd  want  to  be  bothered  with  a  sick 
man,"  he  explained,  gravely,  evading  an  expression  of 
the  community's  attitude  toward  Lytton.  "  I  might 
take  him  to  my  place.  I'm  only  eight  miles  out  west. 
I  could  look  after  him  there,  cause  there  ain't  much 
press  of  work  right  now  an' — " 

"  But  I  would  go  with  him,  too,  of  course,"  she 
said.     "  It's  awfully  kind  of  you  to  offer  .  .   ." 

In  a  flash  the  picture  of  this  woman  and  that  ruin  of 
manhood  together  in  his  house  came  before  Bayard 
and,  again,  he  realized  the  tragedy  in  their  contrast. 
He  saw  himself  watching  them,  hearing  their  talk,  see- 
ing the  woman  make  love  to  her  debauched  husband, 
perhaps,  in  an  effort  to  strengthen  him;  he  felt  his 
wrath  warm  at  thought  of  that  girl's  devotion  and 
loyalty  wasting  itself  so,  and  a  sudden,  alarming  dis- 
trust of  his  own  patience,  his  ability  to  remain  a  dis- 
interested neutral,  arose. 

"  Do  you  think  he  better  know  you're  here?"  he 
asked,  inspired,  and  turned  on  her  quickly. 

"  Why,  why  not?  " —  in  surprise. 

"  It  would  sure  stir  him  up,  ma'am.  He  ain't  even 
wrote  to  you,  you  say,  so  it  would  be  a  surprise  for  him 
to  see  you  here.     He's  goin'  to  need  all  the  nerve  he's 


42  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

got  left,  ma'am,  'specially  right  at  first," —  his  mind 
working  swiftly  to  invent  an  excuse  —  "  Your  hus- 
band's goin'  to  have  the  hardest  fight  he's  ever  had  to 
make  when  he  comes  out  of  this.  He's  on  the  ragged 
edge  of  goin'  loco  from  booze  now;  if  he  had  somethin' 
more  to  worry  him,  he  might.  .  .  . 

"  Besides,  my  outfit  ain't  a  place  for  a  woman. 
He  can  get  along  because  he's  lived  like  we  do,  but  you 
couldn't.  All  I  got  is  one  room," —  hesitating  as  if 
he  were  embarrassed — "  and  no  comforts  for  ...  a 
lady  like  you,  ma'am." 

"  But  my  place  is  with  him !  That's  why  I've  come 
here." 

"  Would  your  bein'  with  him  help?  Could  you  do 
anything  but  stir  him  up?  " 

"Why  of— " 

"  Have  you  ever  been  able  to,  ma'am?  " 

She  stopped,  unable  to  get  beyond  that  fact. 

"  If  you  ain't,  just  remember  that  he's  a  hundred 
times  worse  than  he  was  when  you  had  your  last  try  at 
him." 

She  squeezed  the  fingers  of  one  hand  with  the  other. 
Her  chin  trembled  sharply  but  she  mastered  the  threat- 
ened breakdown. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?  "  she  asked,  weakly, 
and  at  that  Bayard  swung  his  arms  slightly  and  smiled 
at  her  in  relief. 

"  Can't  you  stay  right  here  in  Yavapai  and  wait  until 
the  worst  is  over?     It  won't  be  so  very  long." 


A  REVELATION  43 

"  I  might.  I'll  try.  If  you  think  best  ...  I  will, 
of  course." 

"  I'll  come  in  town  every  time  I  get  a  chance  and 
tell  you  about  him,"  he  promised,  eagerly.  "  I'll  .  .  . 
I'll  be  glad  to,"  he  hastened  to  add,  with  a  drop  in  his 
voice  that  made  her  look  at  him.  "  Then,  when  he's 
better,  when  he's  able  to  make  it  around  the  place  on 
foot,  when  you  think  you  can  manage  him,  I  s'pose  you 
can  go  off  to  his  mine,  then." 

He  ceased  to  smile  and  smote  one  hip  in  a  manner 
that  told  of  his  sudden  feeling  of  hopelessness.  He 
walked  toward  the  bed  again  and  Ann  watched  him. 
As  he  passed  the  lamp  on  the  chair,  she  saw  the  fine 
ripple  of  his  thigh  muscles  under  the  close-fitting  over- 
alls, saw  with  eyes  that  did  not  comprehend  at  first 
but  which  focused  suddenly  and  then  scrutinized  the  de- 
tail of  his  big  frame  with  an  odd  uneasiness. 

He  turned  on  her  and  said  irrelevantly,  as  if  they 
had  discussed  the  idea  at  length, 

"  I'm  glad  to  do  it  for  you,  ma'am." 

He  stared  at  her  steadily,  seeming  absorbed  by  the 
thought  of  service  to  her,  and  the  woman,  after  a  mo- 
ment, removed  her  gaze  from  his. 

"  It's  so  good  of  you!  "  she  said,  and  became  silent 
when  he  gave  her  no  heed. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Bayard  should  take  Ned 
Lytton  to  his  home  to  nurse  and  bring  him  back  to 
bodily  health  and  moral  strength,  if  such  accomplish- 
ments were  possible.     The  hours  passed  until  night  had 


44  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

ceased  to  age  and  day  was  young  before  the  cowman 
deemed  it  wise  to  move  the  still  sleeping  Easterner. 
He  chose  to  make  the  drive  to  his  ranch  in  darkness, 
rather  than  wait  for  daylight  when  his  going  would  at- 
tract attention  and  set  minds  speculating  and  tongues 
wagging. 

Until  his  departure,  the  three  remained  in  the  room 
where  they  had  met,  Ann  much  of  the  time  sitting  be- 
side her  husband,  staring  before  her,  Bayard  moving 
restlessly  about  in  the  shadows,  watching  her  face  and 
her  movements,  questioning  her  occasionally,  growing 
more  absorbed  in  studying  the  woman,  until,  during 
their  last  hour  together,  he  was  in  a  fever  to  be  away 
from  her  where  he  could  think  straight  of  all  that  had 
happened  since  night  came  to  Yavapai. 

Before  he  left  he  said: 

"  Probably  nobody  will  ask  you  questions,  but  if  they 
do  just  say  that  your  husband  went  away  before  day- 
light an'  that  I  left  after  I  washed  his  arm  out.  That'll 
be  the  truth  an'  what  folks  don't  know  won't  hurt  'em 
.  .  .  nor  make  you  uncomfortable  by  havin'  'em  watch 
you  an'  do  a  lot  of  unnecessary  talkin'." 

From  her  window  Ann  watched  Bayard  emerge  from 
the  doorway  below  and  place  the  limp  figure  of  his 
burden  on  the  seat  of  the  buckboard  he  had  secured  for 
the  trip  home.  In  the  starlight  she  saw  him  knot  the 
bridle  reins  of  his  sorrel  over  the  saddle  horn,  heard 
him  say,  "  Go  home,  Abe,"  and  saw  the  splendid  beast 
stride  swiftly  off  into  the  night  alone.     Then,  the  creak 


A  REVELATION  45 

of  springs  as  he,  too,  mounted  the  wagon,  his  word  to 
the  horses,  the  sounds  of  wheels,  and  she  thought  she 
saw  him  turn  his  face  toward  her  window  as  he  rounded 
the  corner  of  the  hotel. 

The  woman  stood  a  moment  in  the  cold  draught  of 
the  wind  that  heralded  dawn.  It  was  as  though  some- 
thing horrible  had  gone  out  of  her  life  and,  at  the  same 
time,  as  if  something  wonderful  had  come  in;  only, 
while  the  one  left  the  heaviness,  the  other  brought  with 
it  a  sweet  sorrow.  Half  aloud  she  told  herself  that; 
then  cried: 

"  No,  it  can't  be!  Nothing  has  gone;  nothing  has 
come.     Things  are  as  they  were  ...  or  worse.   .  .  ." 

Then,  she  turned  to  her  hard,  lumpy  bed. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CLERGY   OF   YAVAPAI 

Hours  passed  before  Ann  could  sleep,  and  then  her 
slumber  was  broken,  her  rest  harried  by  weird  dreams, 
her  half-waking  periods  crammed  with  disturbing  fan- 
tasies. When  broad  daylight  came,  she  rose  and  drew 
down  the  shades  of  her  window  and  after  she  had 
listened  to  the  birds,  to  the  sounds  of  the  awakening 
town,  to  the  passing  of  a  train,  rest  came  and  until 
nearly  noon  she  slept  heavily. 

She  came  to  herself  possessed  by  a  queer  sense  of 
unreality  and  it  was  moments  before  she  could  deter- 
mine its  source.  Then  the  events  of  the  evening  and 
night  swept  back  to  her  intelligence  and  she  closed  her 
eyes,  feeling  sick  and  worn. 

Restlessness  came  upon  her  finally  and  she  arose, 
dressed,  went  downstairs  and  forced  herself  to  eat. 
Several  others  were  in  the  dining  room  and  two  men 
sat  with  her  at  table.  She  was  conscious  that  the  talk, 
which  had  been  loud,  diminished  when  she  entered  and 
that  those  nearest  her  were  evidently  uncomfortable, 
embarrassed,  glad  to  be  through  and  gone. 

When  Nora,  the  waitress,  took  her  order,  Ann  saw 
that  the  girl  eyed  her  curiously,  possibly  sympatheti- 

46 


THE  CLERGY  OF  YAVAPAI  47 

cally,  and,  while  that  quality  could  not  help  but  rouse 
an  appreciation  in  her,  she  shrank  from  the  thought 
that  this  whole  strange  little  town  was  eying  her,  won- 
dering about  her,  dissecting  her  as  she  suffered  in  its 
midst  and  even  through  her  loyalty  to  her  husband 
crept  a  hope  that  her  true  identity  might  remain  secret. 

She  left  the  table  and  started  for  the  stairway,  when 
the  boy  who  had  given  her  her  room  the  night  before 
came  out  of  the  office.  He  had  not  expected  to  see 
her.     He  stopped  and  flushed  and  stammered. 

"  You  .  .  .  last  night  .  .  .  you  said  you  might 
.  .  .  that  is,  do  you  want  th'  automobile,  ma'am?  " 

"  I  shan't  want  to  go  out  to-day,"  Ann  answered  him, 
forcing  her  voice  to  steadiness.  "  I  have  changed  my 
mind." 

Then,  she  went  swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

She  knew  that  the  youth  knew  at  least  a  part  of  her 
reason  for  altering  her  plans.  She  knew  that  within 
the  hour  all  Yavapai  would  know  that  she  was  not 
going  to  the  Sunset  mine  because  Ned  Lytton  was  drunk 
and  hurt,  and  she  felt  like  crying  aloud  to  relieve  the 
distress  in  her  heart. 

Her  room  was  hot,  its  smallness  was  unbearable  and, 
putting  on  her  hat,  she  went  down  the  stairs,  out  of  the 
hotel  and,  looking  up  and  down  the  main  street,  struck 
off  to  the  left,  for  that  direction  seemed  to  offer  the 
quickest  exit  from  the  town. 

Ann  walked  swiftly  along  the  hard  highway,  head 
down   until   she   had   left   the   last   buildings   behind. 


48  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Then  she  lifted  her  chin  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
the  fine  mountain  air  and  for  the  first  time  realized  the 
immensity  of  the  surrounding  country.  Sight  of  it 
brought  a  little  gasp  of  wonder  from  her  and  she  halted 
and  turned  slowly  to  look  about. 

The  town  was  set  in  the  northern  edge  of  a  huge 
valley  which  appeared  to  head  in  abruptly  rising  hills 
not  so  far  to  the  westward.  But  to  the  south  and  east- 
ward it  swept  on  and  out,  astonishing  in  its  apparent 
smoothness,  its  lavish  colorings.  Northward,  its  rise 
was  more  decided  and  not  far  from  the  town  clumps  of 
brush  and  scant  low  timber  dotted  the  country,  but  out 
yonder  there  appeared  to  be  no  growth  except  the 
grass  which,  where  it  grew  in  rank  patches,  bowed  be- 
fore the  breeze  and  flashed  silver  under  the  brilliant 
sun.  The  distances  were  blue  and  inviting.  She  felt 
as  though  she  would  like  to  start  walking  and  walk  and 
walk,  alone  under  that  high  blue  sky. 

She  strolled  on  after  that  and  followed  the  wagon 
track  an  hour.  Then,  bodily  weariness  asserted  it- 
self and  she  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  low  oak  scrub, 
twining  grass  stalks  with  nervous  fingers. 

"  I  would  have  said  that  a  country  like  this  would 
have  inspired  anybody/'  she  said  aloud  after  a  time. 
"  But  he's  the  same.     He's  small,  he's  small !  " 

Vindictiveness  was  about  her  and  her  tone  was  bitter. 

"  Still,"  she  thought,  "  it  may  not  be  too  late.  That 
other  man  ...  is  as  big  as  this  .  .  ." 


THE  CLERGY  OF  YAVAPAI  49 

When  she  had  rested  and  risen  and  gone  a  half  mile 
back  toward  Yavapai,  she  repeated  aloud: 

"  As  big  as  this.  .   .  ." 

A  great  contrast  that  had  been  !  Bruce  Bayard,  big, 
strong,  controlled,  clean  and  thinking  largely  and 
clearly;  Ned  Lytton,  little,  weak,  victim  of  his  appe- 
tites, foul  and  selfish.  She  wondered  rather  vaguely 
about  Bayard.  Was  he  of  that  country?  Was  he  the 
lover  of  some  mountain  girl?  Was  he,  possibly,  the 
husband?  No,  she  recalled  that  he  had  said  that  he 
lived  alone.  .   .  .  Well,  so  did  she,  for  that  matter! 

Scraps  of  Bayard's  talk  the  night  before  came  back 
to  her  and  she  pondered  over  them,  twisting  their 
meanings,  wondering  if  she  had  been  justified  in  the 
relief  his  assurances  gave  her.  There,  alone  in  the 
daylight,  they  all  seemed  very  incredible  that  she  should 
have  opened  her  heart,  given  her  dearest  confidences  to 
that  man.  As  she  thought  back  through  the  hour,  she 
became  a  trifle  panicky,  for  she  did  not  realize  then  that 
to  have  remained  silent,  to  have  bottled  her  emotions 
within  herself  longer  would  have  been  disastrous;  she 
had  reached  Yavapai  and  the  breaking  point  at  the 
same  hour,  and,  had  not  Bayard  opportunely  encount- 
ered her,  she  would  have  been  forced  to  talk  to  the 
wheezing  hotel  proprietor  or  Nora,  the  waitress,  or 
the  first  human  being  she  met  on  the  street  .  .  .  some- 
one, anyone !  Then,  abruptly  changing  her  course  of 
thought,  she  reminded  herself  of  the  strangeness  of  the 


50  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

truth  that  not  once  had  it  occurred  to  her  to  worry  over 
the  fact  that  her  husband,  in  an  unconscious  condition, 
had  been  taken  away,  she  knew  not  where,  by  this 
stranger.  The  faith  she  had  felt  in  Bayard  from  the 
first  prevailed.  She  faced  the  future  with  forebod- 
ings; about  the  present  condition  of  Ned  Lytton  she 
did  not  dare  think.  A  comforting  factor  was  the  con- 
viction that  everything  was  being  done  for  him  that 
she  could  do  and  more  .  .  .  for  she  always  had  been 
helpless. 

She  breathed  in  nervous  exasperation  at  the  idea  that 
everything  she  saw,  talked  about,  thought  or  expe- 
rienced came  back  to  impress  her  further  with  the  hope- 
lessness of  the  situation,  then  told  herself  that  fretting 
would  not  help ;  that  she  must  do  her  all  to  make  mat- 
ters over,  that  she  must  make  good  her  purpose  in  com- 
ing to  this  new  place. 

As  she  neared  the  town  again,  she  saw  the  figure  of  a 
man  approaching.  He  walked  slowly,  with  head 
down,  and  his  face  was  wholly  shaded  by  the  broad 
brim  of  his  felt  hat.  His  hands  were  behind  his  back 
and  the  aimlessness  of  his  carriage  gave  evidence  of 
deep  thought. 

When  the  woman  was  about  to  pass  him,  he  turned 
back  toward  town  without  looking  up  and  it  was  the 
scuffing  of  her  shoe  that  attracted  him.  He  faced 
about  quickly  at  the  sound  and  stared  hard  at  Ann. 
The  stare  was  not  offensive.  She  saw  first  his  eyes, 
black  and  large  and  wonderfully  kind;  his  hair  was 


THE  CLERGY  OF  YAVAPAI  51 

white;  his  shaven  lips  gentle.  Then  she  observed  that 
he  wore  the  clothing  of  a  clergyman. 

His  hand  went  to  his  hat  band,  after  his  first  gaze  at 
her,  and  he  smiled. 

"How-do-you-do?"  he  said,  with  friendly  confi- 
dence. 

Ann  murmured  a  greeting. 

"  I  didn't  know  anyone  was  on  the  road.  I  was 
thinking  rather  fiercely,  I  guess." 

He  started  to  walk  beside  her  and  Ann  was  glad,  for 
he  was  of  that  type  whose  first  appearance  attracts  by 
its  promise  of  friendship. 

"  I've  been  thinking,  too,"  she  answered.  "  Think- 
ing, among  other  things  what  a  wonderful  country  this 
is.  I'm  from  the  East,  I  suppose  it  is  not  necessary  to 
say,  and  this  is  my  first  look  at  your  valley." 

"  Manzanita  is  a  great  old  sweep  of  country!  "  he 
exclaimed,  looking  out  over  it.  "  That  valley  is  a 
good  thing  to  look  at  when  we  think  that  human  anxie- 
ties are  mighty  matters." 

He  smiled,  and  Ann  looked  into  his  face  with  a  new 
interest  and  said:  * 

"  I  should  think  that  such  an  influence  as  this  is  would 
tend  to  lessen  those  anxieties;  that  it  would  tend  to 
make  the  people  who  live  near  it  big,  as  it  is  big." 

He  looked  away  and  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  I  hold  that  theory,  too,  sometimes  ...  in  my 
most  optimistic  hours.  But  the  more  I  see  of  the 
places  in  which  men  live,  the  closer  I  watch  the  way 


52  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

we  humans  react  to  our  physical  environments,  the  less 
faith  I  have  in  it.  Some  of  the  biggest,  rarest  souls 
I  know  have  developed  in  the  meanest  localities  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  some  of  the  worst  culls  of  the  species 
IVe  ever  seen  have  been  products  of  countries  so  big 
that  they  would  inspire  most  men.  Perhaps,  though, 
the  big  men  of  the  small  places  would  have  been  bigger 
in  a  country  like  this;  possibly,  those  who  are  found 
wanting  out  here  would  fall  even  shorter  of  what  we 
expect  of  them  if  they  were  in  less  wonderful  sur- 
roundings." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued:  "  It  may 
be  a  myth,  this  tradition  of  the  bigness  of  mountain 
men;  or  the  impression  may  thrive  because,  out  here, 
we  are  so  few  and  so  widely  scattered  that  we  are  the 
only  people  who  get  a  proper  perspective  on  one  an- 
other. That  would  be  a  comfortable  thing  to  believe, 
wouldn't  it?  It  would  mean,  possibly,  that  if  we  could 
only  remove  ourselves  far  enough  from  any  community 
we  would  appreciate  its  virtues  and  be  able  to  overlook 
its  vices.  I'd  like  to  believe  without  qualification  that 
a  magnificent  creation  like  this  valley  would  lift  us  all 
to  a  higher  level;  but  I  can't.  Some  of  your  enthu- 
siastic young  men  who  come  out  from  the  East  and 
write  books  about  the  West  would  have  it  that  these 
specimens  of  humanity  which  thrive  in  the  mountains 
and  deserts  are  all  supermen,  with  only  enough  rascals 
sprinkled  about  to  serve  the  purposes  of  their  plots. 
That,  of  course,  is  a  fallacy  and  it  may  be  due  to  the 


THE  CLERGY  OF  YAVAPAI  53 

surprising  point  of  view  which  we  find  ourselves  able 
to  adopt  when  we  are  removed  far  enough  by  distance 
or  tradition  from  other  people.  We  have  some  splen- 
did men  here,  but  the  average  man  in  the  mountains 
won't  measure  up  to  where  he  will  overshadow  the 
average  man  of  any  other  region  ...  I  believe.  We 
haven't  so  many  opportunities,  perhaps,  to  show  our 
qualities  of  goodness  and  badness  .  \  .  although  some 
of  us  can  be  downright  nasty  on  occasion !  " 

He  ended  with  an  inflection  which  caused  Ann  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  thinking  of  some  specific  case  of  mis- 
conduct; she  felt  herself  flush  quickly  and  became  sud- 
denly fearful  that  he  might  refer  directly  to  Ned. 
Last  night  she  had  poured  her  misery  into  a  stranger's 
ears;  to-day  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  further 
discussing  her  husband's  life  or  condition;  she  shrank, 
even,  from  the  idea  of  being  associated  with  him  in  the 
minds  of  other  people  and  in  desperation  she  veered  the 
subject  by  asking, 

"  Is  it  populated  much,  the  valley,  I  mean?  " 

"  Not  yet.  Cattle  and  horse  and  some  sheep 
ranches  are  scattered  about.  One  outfit  will  use  up  a 
lot  of  that  country  for  grazing  purposes,  you  know. 
Someday  there'll  be  water  and  more  people  .  .  .  and 
less  bigness!  " 

He  told  her  more  of  the  valley,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  indicate  directions. 

"  I  came  from  over  there  yesterday,"  he  said,  facing 
about    and    pointing    into    the    westward.      "  Had    a 


54  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

funeral  beyond  those  hills.  Stopped  for  dinner  with  a 
young  friend  of  mine  whose  ranch  is  just  beyond  that 
swell  yonder.  .  .  .  Fine  boy;  Bayard,  Bruce  Bayard." 

Ann  wanted  to  ask  him  more  about  the  rancher,  but 
somehow  she  could  not  trust  herself;  she  felt  that  her 
voice  would  be  uncertain,  for  one  thing.  Some  un- 
named shyness,  too,  held  her  from  questioning  him 
now. 

They  stopped  before  the  hotel  and  the  man  said: 

"  My  name  is  Weyl.  I  am  the  clergy  of  Yavapai. 
If  you  are  to  be  here  long,  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Weyl  would 
like  to  see  you.  She  is  in  Prescott  for  a  week  or  two 
now." 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and,  as  she  clasped  it,  Ann  said, 
scarcely  thinking: 

"  I  am  Ann  Lytton.  I  arrived  last  night  and  may 
be  here  some  time." 

She  saw  a  quick  look  of  pain  come  into  his  readable 
eyes  and  felt  his  finger  tighten  on  hers. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  he  said,  in  a  manner  that  made  her  catch 
her  breath.  "  I  know.  .  .  .  Your  brother,  isn't  it,  the 
young  miner?  " 

At  that  the  woman  started  and  merely  to  escape  fur- 
ther painful  discussion,  unthinkingly  clouding  her  own 
identity,  replied, 

"  Ned,  you  mean  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  if  you're  to  be  here  long  we  will  see  you, 
surely.  And  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
please  ask  it." 


THE  CLERGY  OF  YAVAPAI  55 

"  You're  very  kind,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  from 
him. 

In  her  room  she  stood  silent  a  moment,  palms  against 
her  cheeks.     Bayard's  words  came  back  to  her: 

"  I  didn't  think  you  was  married  .  .  .  especially  to 
a  thing  like  that.  .  .  ." 

And  now  this  other  man  concluded  that  she  could 
not  be  Ned's  wife! 

"  I  must  be  his  wife  ...  his  good  wife  !  "  she  said, 
with  a  stamp  of  her  foot.  "  If  he  ever  needed  one 
.  .  .  it's  now.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT   THE    CIRCLE   A 

Ned  Lytton  swam  back  to  consciousness  through 
painful  half  dreams.  Light  hurt  his  inflamed  eyes;  a 
horrible  throbbing,  originating  in  the  center  of  his 
head,  proceeded  outward  and  seemed  to  threaten  the 
solidity  of  his  skull;  his  body  was  as  though  it  had  been 
mauled  and  banged  about  until  no  inch  of  flesh  re- 
mained unbruised;  his  left  forearm  burned  and  stung 
fiendishly.  He  was  in  bed,  undressed,  he  realized, 
and  covered  to  the  chin  with  clean  smelling  bedding. 
He  moved  his  tortured  head  from  side  to  side  and  mar- 
veled dully  because  it  rested  on  a  pillow. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  appreciated  more. 
Then  he  saw  that  the  fine  sunlight  which  hurt  his  eyes 
streamed  into  the  room  from  open  windows  and  door, 
that  it  was  flung  back  at  him  by  whitewashed  walls  and 
scrubbed  floor.  He  was  in  someone's  house,  cared  for 
without  his  knowing.  He  moved  stiffly  on  the 
thought.  Someone  had  taken  him  in,  someone  had 
shown  him  a  kindness,  and,  even  in  his  semi-stupor,  he 
wondered,  because,  for  an  incalculable  period,  he  had 
been  hating  and  hated. 

He  did  not  know  how  Bayard  had  dragged  a  bed 
from  another  room  and  set  it  up  in  his  kitchen  that  he 

56 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  57 

might  better  nurse  his  patient;  did  not  know  how  the 
rancher  had  slept  in  his  chair,  and  then  but  briefly, 
that  he  might  not  be  tardy  in  attending  to  any  need  dur- 
ing the  early  morning  hours;  did  not  realize  that  the 
whole  program  of  life  in  that  comfortable  ranch  house 
had  been  altered  that  it  might  center  about  him.  He 
did  comprehend,  though,  that  someone  cared,  that  he 
was  experiencing  kindness. 

The  sound  of  moving  feet  and  the  ring  of  spurs 
reached  him;  then  a  boot  was  set  on  the  threshold  and 
Bruce  Bayard  stepped  into  the  room.  He  was  rub- 
bing his  face  with  a  towel  and  in  the  other  hand  was  a 
razor  and  shaving  brush.  He  had  been  scraping  his 
chin  in  the  shade  of  the  ash  tree  that  waved  lazily  in 
the  warm  breeze  and  tossed  fantastically  changing 
shadows  through  the  far  window.  He  looked  up  as 
he  entered  and  encountered  the  gaze  from  these  swol- 
len, inflamed  eyes  set  in  the  bruised  face  of  Ned 
Lytton. 

"  Hello !  "  he  cried  in  surprise.     "  You're  awake?  " 

He  put  down  the  things  he  carried  and  crossed  the 
room  to  the  bedside. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  For  God's  sake,  haven't  you  got  a 
drink?  " — in  a  painful  rasp. 

"  I  have;  one;  just  one,  for  you,"  the  other  replied, 
left  the  room  and  came  back  with  a  tumbler  a  third  filled 
with  whiskey.  He  propped  Lytton's  head  with  one 
hand  and  held  the  glass  to  his  misshapen  lips,  while  he 
guzzled  greedily. 


58  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  More  .  .  .  another  .  .  ."  Lytton  muttered  a  mo- 
ment after  he  was  back  on  his  pillow. 

"  Seems  to  me  you'd  ought  to  know  you've  punished 
enough  of  this  by  now,"  the  rancher  said,  standing  with 
his  hands  on  his  hips  and  looking  at  the  distorted  ex- 
pression of  suffering  on  Lytton's  face. 

The  sick  man  moved  his  head  slightly  in  negation. 
Then,  after  a  moment : 

"  How'd  I  get  here?  Who  are  you  .  .  .  any- 
how?" 

"  Don't  you  know  me?  " 

The  fevered  eyes  held  on  him,  studying  laboriously, 
and  a  smile  struggled  to  bend  the  puffed  lips. 

"  Sure  .  .  .  you're  the  fellow,  Nora's  fellow  .  .  . 
the  girl  in  the  hotel.  I  tried  to  .  .  .  and  she  said 
you'd  beat  me  up.  .  .  ."  Something  intended  for  a 
laugh  sounded  from  his  throat.  The  face  of  the  man 
above  him  flushed  slightly  and  the  jaw  muscles  bulged 
under  his  cheek.  "Where  in  hell  am  I?  How'd  I 
get  here?  " 

"  I  brought  you  here  last  night.  You'd  gone  the 
limit  in  town.  Somebody  tried  to  shoot  you  an'  got  as 
far  's  your  arm.  I  brought  you  here  to  try  to  make 
somethin'  like  a  man  of  you," —  ending  with  a  hint  of 
bitterness  in  spite  of  the  whimsical  smile  with  which 
he  watched  the  effect  of  his  last  words. 

Lytton  stirred. 

"Damned  arm!"  he  muttered,  thickly,  evidently 
conscious  of  only  physical  things.      "  I  thought  some- 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  59 

thing  was  wrong.  It  hurts  like.  .  .  .  Say,  whatever 
your  name  is,  haven't  you  got  another  drink?  " 

"My  name  is  Bayard;  you  know  me  when  you're 
sober.  You're  at  my  ranch,  th'  Circle  A.  You've  had 
your  drink  for  to-day." 

"May  —  Bayard.  Say,  for  God's  sake,  Bayard, 
you  ain't  going  to  let  me.  .  .  .  Why,  like  one  gentle- 
man to  another,  when  your  girl  Nora,  the  waitress 
.  .  .  said  you'd  knock  me  .  .  .  keep  away.  I  wasn't 
afraid.  .  .  .  Didn't  know  she  was  yours.  ...  I  quit 
when  I  knew.  .  .  .  Treated  you  like  a  gentleman. 
Now  why  .  .  .  don't  you  treat  me  like  a  gentle  .  .  . 
give  me  a  drink.     I  kept  away  from  your  wo  — " 

"Oh,  shut  up !" 

The  ominous  quality  of  the  carelessly  spoken,  half 
laughing  demand  carried  even  to  Lytton's  confused 
understanding  and  he  checked  himself  between  syllables, 
staring  upward  into  the  countenance  of  the  other. 

"  In  the  first  place,  she's  not  my  woman,  in  th'  way 
you  mean;  if  she  was,  I  wouldn't  stand  here  an'  only 
tell  you  to  shut  your  mouth  when  you  talked  about  her 
like  that.  Sick  as  you  are,  I'd  choke  you,  maybe.  In 
th'  second  place,  I'm  no  gentleman,  I  guess," —  with  a 
smile  breaking  through  into  a  laugh.  "  I'm  just  a  kind 
of  he-man  an'  I  don't  know  much  about  th'  way  you 
gentlemen  have  dealin's  with  each  other. 

"  No  more  booze  for  you  to-day.  Get  that  in  your 
head,  if  you  can.  I've  got  coffee  for  you  now  an' 
some  soup." 


60  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

He  turned  and  walked  to  the  stove  in  the  far  corner, 
kicked  open  the  draft  and  took  a  cup  from  the  shelf 
above.  All  the  while  the  bleared,  scarce  understand- 
ing gaze  of  the  man  in  bed  followed  him  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  comprehend,  trying  to  get  the  meaning 
of  Bayard's  simple,  direct  sentences. 

After  he  had  been  helped  in  drinking  a  quantity  of 
hot  coffee  and  had  swallowed  a  few  spoonfuls  of  soup, 
Lytton  dropped  back  on  the  pillow,  sighed  and,  with 
his  puffed  eyes  half  open,  slipped  back  into  a  state 
that  was  half  slumber,  half  stupor. 

Bayard  took  the  wounded  arm  from  beneath  the 
cover,  unwrapped  the  bandages,  eyed  the  clotted  tear 
critically  and  bound  it  up  again.  Then  he  walked  to 
the  doorway  and,  with  hands  hooked  in  his  belt,  scowled 
out  across  the  lavendar  floor  of  the  treeless  valley  which 
spread  before  and  below  him,  rising  to  blue  heights  in 
the  far,  far  distance.  He  stood  there  a  long,  silent 
interval,  staring  vacantly  at  that  vast  panorama, 
then,  moved  slowly  across  the  fenced  dooryard,  let 
himself  into  a  big  enclosure  and  approached  a  round 
corral,  through  the  bars  of  which  the  sorrel  horse 
watched  his  progress  with  alert  ears.  For  a  half 
hour  he  busied  himself  with  currycomb  and  brush,  rub- 
bing the  fine  hair  until  the  sunlight  was  shot  back  from 
it  in  points  of  golden  light  and  all  the  time  the  frown 
between  his  brows  grew  deeper,  more  perplexed. 
Finally,  he  straightened,  tapped  the  comb  against  a 
post  to  free  it  of  dust,  flung  an  arm  affectionately  about 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  61 

the  horse's  neck,  caressed  one  of  the  great,  flat  cheeks, 
idly,  and,  after  a  moment,  began  to  laugh. 

"  Because  we  set  our  fool  eyes  on  beauty  in  dis- 
tress we  cross  a  jag-cure  with  a  reform  school  an'  set 
up  to  herd  th'  cussed  thing!"  he  chuckled.  "  Abe, 
was  there  ever  two  bigger  fools  'n  you  an'  me?  Be- 
cause she's  a  beauty,  she'll  draw  attention  like  honey 
draws  bees;  because  she's  in  trouble  an'  can't  hide  it, 
she'll  have  everybody  prospectin'  round  to  locate  her 
misery  an'  when  they  do,  we'll  be  in  th'  middle  of  it  all, 
keepin'  th'  worthless  husband  of  a  pretty  young  woman 
away  from  her.  All  out  of  th'  goodness  of  our  hearts. 
It  won't  sound  good  when  they  talk  about  it  an'  giggle, 
Abe.  It  won't  sound  good!  "  And  then,  very  seri- 
ously, 

"  How  'n  hell  could  she  marry  a  .  .  .  thing  like 
that?" 

During  the  day  Lytton  roused  several  times  and 
begged  for  whiskey,  incoherently,  scarce  consciously, 
but  only  once  again  did  Bayard  respond  with  stimulants. 
That  was  late  evening  and,  after  the  drink,  the  man 
dropped  off  into  profound  slumber,  not  to  rouse  from 
it  until  the  sun  again  rose  above  the  hills  and  once 
more  flooded  the  room  with  its  glorious  light.  Then, 
he  looked  up  to  see  Bayard  smiling  seriously  at  him,  a 
basin  and  towel  in  his  hands. 

"  You're  a  good  sleeper,"  he  said.  "  I  took  a  look 
at  your  pinked  arm  an'  you  didn't  even  move;  just 
cussed  me  a  little." 


62  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

The  other  smiled,  this  time  in  a  more  human  manner, 
for  the  swelling  had  partly  gone  from  his  lips  and  his 
eyes  were  nearer  those  of  his  species. 

"  Now,  sit  up,"  the  cowman  went  on,  "  an'  get  your 
face  washed,  like  a  good  boy." 

Gently,  swiftly,  thoroughly,  he  washed  Lytton's  face 
and  neck  in  water  fresh  from  the  well  under  the  ash 
tree,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  he  took  the  sick  man  in 
the  crook  of  his  big,  steady  arm,  lifted  him  without 
much  effort  and  placed  him  halfway  erect  against  the 
re-arranged  pillows. 

"  Would  you  eat  somethin'?  "  he  asked,  and  for  the 
first  time  that  day  his  patient  spoke. 

"  Lord,  yes!  I'm  starved," —  feebly. 

Bayard  brought  coffee  again  and  eggs  and  stood  by 
while  Lytton  consumed  them  with  a  weak  show  of 
relish.  During  this  breakfast  only  a  few  words  were 
exchanged,  but  when  the  dishes  were  removed  and 
Bayard  returned  to  the  bed  with  a  glass  of  water  the 
other  stared  into  his  face  for  the  space  of  many 
breaths. 

"  Old  chap,  you're  mighty  white  to  do  all  this,"  he 
said,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  earnestness.  "  I  .  .  ; 
I  don't  believe  I've  ever  spoken  to  you  a  dozen  times 
when  I  was  sober  and  yet  you.  .  .  .  How  long  have 
you  been  doing  all  this  for  me?  " 

"  Only  since  night  before  last,"  Bayard  answered, 
with   a    depreciating   laugh.     "  It's   no    more    'n   any 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  63 

man  would   do    for    another  ...  if  he   needed   it." 

Lytton  searched  his  face  seriously  again. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  he  muttered,  with  a  painful  shake  of 
his  head.  "  No  one  has  ever  done  for  me  like  this, 
never  since  I  was  a  little  kid.  .  .  . 

"  I  ...  I  don't  blame  'em;  especially  the  ones  out 
here.  I've  been  a  rotter  all  right;  no  excuse  for  it. 
I  .  .  .  I've  gone  the  limit  and  I  guess  whoever  tried  to 
shoot  me  was  justified  ...  I  don't  know," — with  a 
slow  sigh  — "  how  much  hell  I've  raised. 

"But  .  .  .  but  why  did  you  do  this  for  me? 
You've  never  seen  me  much;  never  had  any  reason  to 
like  me." 

The  smile  went  from  Bayard's  eyes.  He  thought 
"  I'm  doing  this  not  for  you,  but  for  a  woman  I've  seen 
only  once.  .  .  ."  What  he  said  aloud  was:  "Why, 
I  reckoned  if  somebody  didn't  take  care  of  you,  you'd 
get  killed  up.  I  might  just  as  well  do  it  as  anybody  an' 
save  Yavapai  th'  trouble  of  a  funeral." 

They  looked  at  one  another  silently. 

"  A  while  ago  .  .  .  yesterday,  maybe  ...  I  said 
something  to  you  about  a,  about  a  woman,"  the  man 
said,  and  an  uneasiness  marked  his  expression.  "  I 
apologize,  Old  Man.  I  don't  know  just  what  I  said, 
but  I  was  nasty,  and  I'm  sorry.  A  ...  a  man's 
woman  is  his  own  affair;  nobody's  else." 

"You  think  so?"  The  question  came  with  a  sur- 
prising bluntness. 


64  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Why,  yes;  always." 

Bayard  turned  from  the  bedside  abruptly  and  strode 
across  the  floor  to  the  table  where  a  pan  waited  for 
the  dirty  dishes,  rolling  up  his  sleeves  as  he  went,  face 
troubled.  Lytton's  eyes  followed  him,  a  trifle  sadly  at 
first,  but  slowly,  as  the  other  worked,  a  cunning  came 
into  them,  a  shiftiness,  a  crafy  glitter.  He  moistened 
his  lips  with  his  tongue  and  stirred  uneasily  on  his 
pillow.  Once,  he  opened  his  mouth  as  though  to 
speak  but  checked  the  impulse.  When  the  dishpan 
was  hung  away  and  Bayard  stood  rolling  down  his 
sleeves,  Lytton  said: 

"  Old  man,  yesterday  you  gave  me  a  drink  or  two. 
Can't  .  .  .  haven't  you  any  left  this  morning?  " 

"  I  have,"  the  rancher  said  slowly,  "  but  you  don't 
need  it  to-day.  You  did  yesterday,  but  this  mornin' 
you've  got  some  grub  in  you,  you  got  somethin'  more 
like  a  clear  head,  an'  I  don't  guess  any  snake  juice  would 
help  matters  along  very  fast.  There's  more  coffee  here 
an'  you  can  fill  up  on  that  any  old  time  you  get  shaky." 

"Coffee!"  scoffed  the  other,  a  sudden  weak  rage 
asserting  itself.  "  What  th'  hell  do  I  want  of  coffee? 
What  I  need  's  whiskey !  Don't  you  think  I  know  what 
I  want?  Lord,  Bayard,  I'm  a  man,  ain't  I?  I  can 
judge  for  myself  what  I  want,  can't  I?  " 

"  Yesterday,  you  said  you  was  a  gentleman,"  Bayard 
replied,  reminiscently,  his  tone  lightly  chaffing,  "  an'  I 
guess  that  about  states  your  case.     As  for  you  knowin' 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  65 

what  you  want  ...  I  don't  agree  with  you;  judgin' 
from  your  past,  anyhow." 

The  man  in  the  bed  bared  his  teeth  in  an  unpleasant 
smile;  two  of  the  front  teeth  were  missing,  another 
broken,  result  of  some  recent  fight,  and  with  his 
swollen  eyes  he  was  a  revolting  sight.  As  he  looked  at 
him,  Bayard's  face  reflected  his  deep  disgust. 

"What's  your  game?"  Lytton  challenged.  "I 
didn't  ask  you  to  bring  me  here,  did  I  ?  I  haven't  asked 
any  favors  of  you,  have  I  ?  You  .  .  .  You  shang- 
haied me  out  to  your  damned  ranch;  you  keep  me  here, 
and  then  won't  even  give  me  a  drink  out  of  your  bottle. 
Hell,  any  sheepherder  'd  do  that  for  me ! 

"  If  you  think  I'm  ungrateful  for  what  you've  done 
—  sobered  me  up,  I  mean  —  just  say  so  and  I'll  get 
out.  That  was  all  right.  But  what  was  your  ob- 
ject? " 

"  I  thought  by  bringing  you  out  here  you  might  get 
straightened  up.  I  did  it  for  your  own  good.  You 
don't  understand  right  now,  but  you  may  .  .  .  some- 
time." 

"My  own  good!  Well,  I've  had  enough  for  my 
own  good,  now,  so  I  guess  I  won't  wait  any  longer  to 
understand!  " 

He  kicked  off  the  covers  and  stood  erect,  swaying 
dizzily.     Bayard  stepped  across  to  him. 

"  Get  back  into  bed,"  he  said,  evenly,  with  no  dis- 
play of  temper.     "  You  couldn't  walk  to  water  an'  you 


66  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

couldn't  set  on  a  horse  five  minutes.  You're  here  an' 
you're  goin'  to  stay  a  while  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

The  cords  of  his  neck  stood  out,  giving  the  only  evi- 
dence of  the  anger  he  felt.  He  gently  forced  the  other 
man  back  into  bed  and  covered  him,  breathing  a  trifle 
swiftly  but  offering  no  further  protest  for  explanation. 

"  You  keep  me  here  by  force,  and  then  you  prate 
about  doing  it  for  my  own  good!"  Lytton  panted. 
"  You  damned  hypocrite;  you.  .  .  .  It's  on  account  of 
a  woman,  I  know!  She  tried  to  get  coy  with  me;  she 
tried  to  make  me  think  she  was  all  yours  when  I  fol- 
lowed her  up.  She  told  you  about  it  and  .  .  .  damn 
you,  you're  afraid  to  let  me  go  back  to  town!  " — lift- 
ing himself  on  an  elbow.  "  Come,  Bayard,  be  frank 
with  me :  the  thing  between  us  is  a  woman,  isn't  it?  " 

The  rancher  eyed  him  a  long  time,  almost  absently. 
Then  he  walked  slowly  to  the  far  corner  of  the  room 
and  moved  a  chair  back  against  the  wall  with  great 
pains;  it  was  as  though  he  were  deciding  something, 
something  of  great  importance,  something  on  which  an 
immediate  decision  was  gravely  necessary.  He  faced 
about  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  bedside  without 
speaking.  His  lips  were  shut  and  the  one  hand  held 
behind  him  was  clenched  into  a  knot. 

"  Not  now  ...  a  woman,"  he  said,  as  though  he 
were  uncertain  himself.  "  Not  now  .  .  .  but  it  may 
be,  sometime.   .   .   ." 

The  other  laughed  and  fell  back  into  his  pillows. 


AT  THE  CIRCLE  A  67 

Bayard  looked  down  at  him,  eyes  speculative  beneath 
slightly  drawn  brows. 

"  And  then,"  he  added,  "  if  it  ever  comes  to 
that  .  .  ." 

He  snapped  his  fingers  and  turned  away  abruptly,  as 
if  the  thought  brought  a  great  uneasiness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TONGUES    WAG 

It  was  afternoon  the  next  day  that  Bruce  Bayard, 
swinging  down  from  his  horse,  whipped  the  dust  from 
his  clothing  with  his  hat  and  walked  through  the  kitchen 
door  of  the  Manzanita  House. 

"  Hello,  Nora,"  he  said  to  the  girl  who  approached 
him.  "  Got  a  little  clean  water  for  a  dirty  cow 
puncher?  " 

He  kicked  out  of  his  chaps  and,  dropping  his  hat 
to  the  floor,  reached  for  the  dipper.  The  girl,  after  a 
brief  greeting,  stood  looking  at  him  in  perplexed  specu- 
lation. 

"What's  wrong,  Sister?  You  look  mighty  mourn- 
ful this  afternoon!  " 

"Bruce,  what  do  you  know  about  Ned  Lytton?" 
she  asked,  cautiously,  looking  about  to  see  that  no  one 
could  overhear. 

"  Why?     What  do  you  know  about  him?  " 

"  Well,  his  wife  's  here;  you  took  him  upstairs  with 
you  that  night  dead  drunk,  you  went  home  and  he  was 
gone  before  any  of  us  was  up.  She  .  .  .  she's  wor- 
ried to  fits  about  him.  Everybody's  tryin'  to  put  her 
off  his  track,  'cause  they  feel  sorry  for  her;  they  think 

68 


TONGUES  WAG  69 

he's  probably  gone  back  to  his  mine  to  sober  up,  but 
nobody  wants  to  see  her  follow  and  find  out  what  he 
is.     Nobody  thinks  she  knows  how  he's  been  actin'. 

"  You  know,  they  think  that  she's  his  sister.  I 
don't." 

He  scooped  water  from  the  shallow  basin  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  cupped  hands  that  held  it,  rubbing  and 
blowing  furiously. 

"  That's  what  I  come  to  town  for,  Nora,  because  I 
suspected  she'd  be  worryin'."  To  himself  he  thought, 
"  Sister!     That  helps!" 

"  You  mean,  you  know  where  he  is?  " 

"  Yeah," —  nodding  his  head  as  he  wiped  his 
hands  — "  I  took  him  home.  I  got  him  there  in  bed 
an'  I  come  to  town  th'  first  chance  I  got  to  tell  her  he's 
gettin'  along  fine." 

"  That  was  swell  of  you,  Bruce,"  she  said,  with  an 
admiring  smile. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  deprecatingly. 

"  Yes,  it  was!  "  she  insisted.  "  To  do  it  for  her. 
She's  th'  sweetest  thing  ever  come  into  this  town,  an' 
he's  .  .  ." 

She  ended  by  making  a  wry  face. 

11  You  had  a  run-in  with  him,  didn't  you?  "  he  asked, 
as  if  casually,  and  the  girl  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  How'd  you  know?  " 

"  He's  been  kind  of  nutty  an'  said  somethin'  about 
it." 

A  pause. 


70  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  He  come  in  here  last  week,  Bruce,  drunk.  He 
made  a  grab  for  me  an'  said  somethin'  fresh  an'  he  was 
so  crazy,  so  awful  lookin',  that  it  scart  me  for  a  minute. 
I  told  him  to  keep  away  or  you'd  knock  all  th'  poison 
out  of  him.  He  .  .  .  You  see," —  apologetically  — 
"  I  was  scart  an'  I  knew  that  was  th'  easiest  way  out  — 
to  tell  him  you'd  get  after  him.  You  .  .  .  Th'  worst 
of  'em  back  up  when  they  think  you're  likely  to  land  on 
em. 

He  reached  out  and  pinched  her  cheek,  smiled  and 
shook  his  head  with  mock  seriousness. 

"  Lordy,  Sister,  you'd  make  me  out  a  hell-winder  of 
a  bad  man,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Not  much !  'N  awful  good  man,  Bruce.  That's 
what  puts  a  crimp  in  'em  —  your  goodness !  " 

He  flushed  at  that. 

"  Tryin'  to  josh  me  now,  ain't  you?"  he  laughed. 
"  Well,  josh  away,  but  if  any  of  'em  get  fresh  with  you 
an'  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  have  th'  sheriff  on  'em!"— with  a 
twinkle  in  his  gray  eyes.     Then  he  sobered. 

"  I  s'pose  I'd  better  go  up  to  her  room  now,"  he 
said,  an  uneasy  manner  coming  over  him.  "  She'll  be 
glad  to  know  he's  gettin'  along  so  well  .  .  . 

"  So  everybody  thinks  she's  his  sister,  do  they?  " — 
with  an  effort  to  make  his  question  sound  casual  and  as 
an  afterthought. 

"  Yes,  they  do.  I'm  th'  only  one  who's  guessed  she's 
his  wife  an'  I  kept  my  mouth  shut.  Rest  of  'em  all 
swear  she  couldn't  be,  that's  she's  his  sister,  'cause  she 


TONGUES  WAG  71 

.  .  .  well,  she  ain't  th'  kind  that  would  marry  a  thing 
like  that.  I  didn't  say  nothin'.  I  let  'em  think  as 
they  do ;  but  I  know !  No  sister  would  worry  th'  way 
she  does!  " 

"  You're  a  wise  gal,"  he  said,  "  an'  when  you  said 
she  was  th'  sweetest  thing  that  ever  come  to  this  town 
you  wasn't  so  awful  wrong." 

He  opened  the  door  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

In  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  floor  the  girl  stood 
alone,  motionless,  her  eyes  glowing,  pulses  quickened. 
Then,  the  keen  light  went  from  her  face;  its  expres- 
sion became  doggedly  patient,  as  if  she  were  con- 
fronted by  a  long,  almost  hopeless  undertaking,  and 
with  a  sigh  she  turned  to  her  tasks. 

Patient  Nora !  As  Bayard  had  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  unthinkingly,  so  had  he  closed  the  door  to 
his  heart  against  the  girl.  All  her  crude,  timid  ad- 
vances had  failed  to  impress  him,  so  detached  from  re- 
sponse to  sex  attraction  was  his  interest  in  her.  And 
for  months  she  had  waited  .  .  .  waited,  finding  solace 
in  the  fact  that  no  other  woman  stood  closer  to  him; 
but  now  .  .  .  she  feared  an  unnamed  influence. 

Ann  Lytton,  staring  at  the  page  of  a  book,  heard  his 
boots  on  the  stair.  He  mounted  slowly,  spurs  ringing 
lightly  with  each  step,  and,  when  he  was  halfway  up, 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  walked  to  the  door  of  her  room 
and  stood  watching  him  come  down  the  narrow,  dark 
hallway,  filling  it  with  his  splendid  height,  his  unusual 
breadth. 


72  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

They  spoke  no  greeting.  She  merely  backed  into 
the  room  and  Bruce  followed  with  a  show  of  slight  em- 
barrassment. Yet  his  gaze  was  full  on  her,  steady, 
searching,  intent.  Only  when  she  stopped  and  held  out 
her  hand  did  his  manner  of  looking  at  her  change. 
Then,  he  smiled  and  met  her  firm  grasp  with  a  hand 
that  was  cold  and  which  trembled  ever  so  slightly. 

"  He  .  .  .  is  he  .  .  ."  she  began  in  an  uncertain 
voice. 

"  He's  doin'  fine,  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  her  fingers 
tightened  on  his,  sending  a  thrill  up  his  arm  and  making 
its  muscles  contract  to  draw  her  a  bit  closer  to  him. 
"  He's  doin'  fine,"  he  repeated,  relinquishing  his  grasp. 
"  He's  feelin'  better  an'  lookin'  better  an'  he'll  begin 
to  gain  strength  right  off." 

An  inarticulate  exclamation  of  gladness  broke  from 
her. 

"  Oh,  it's  been  an  age !  "  she  said,  smiling  wanly  and 
shaking  her  head  slowly  as  she  looked  up  into  his  face. 
"  Every  hour  has  seemed  a  day,  every  day  a  week.  I 
didn't  dare,  didn't  dare  think;  and  I've  hoped  so  long, 
with  so  little  result  that  I  didn't  dare  hope !  " 

She  bowed  her  head  and  held  her  folded  hands 
against  her  mouth.  For  a  moment  they  were  so,  the 
cowboy  looking  down  at  her  with  a  restless,  covetous 
light  in  his  eyes  and  it  was  the  impulsive  lifting  of  one 
hand  as  though  he  would  stroke  the  blue-black  braids 
that  roused  her. 

"  Come,  sit  down,"  she  said,  indicating  a  chair  op- 


TONGUES  WAG  73 

posite  hers  by  the  open  window.  "  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  everything  and  I  want  to  ask  you  if  it  isn't  best  that 
I  go  to  him  now. 

"  Now,  from  the  beginning,  please !  " 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  as  though  he  did  not  hear 
her  words.  Her  expression  of  eager  anticipation 
changed;  her  look  wavered,  she  left  off  meeting  his 
gaze  and  Bayard,  with  a  start,  moved  in  his  chair. 

"  There  ain't  much  to  tell,"  he  mumbled.  "  I  got 
him  home  easy  enough  an'  sent  th'  team  back  that  day 
by  a  friend  of  mine  who  happened  along.  .  .   ." 

Her  eyes  returned  to  his  face,  riveting  there  with  an 
impersonal  earnestness  that  would  not  be  challenged. 
Her  red  lips  were  parted  as  she  sat  with  elbows  on 
knees  in  the  low  rocker  before  him.  It  was  his  gaze, 
now,  that  wavered,  but  he  hastened  on  with  his  recital 
of  what  he  thought  best  to  tell  about  what  had  oc- 
curred at  his  ranch  in  the  last  two  days. 

From  time  to  time  he  glanced  at  her  and  on  every 
occasion  the  mounting  appreciation  of  her  beauty,  the 
unfaltering  earnestness  of  her  desire  to  learn  every  de- 
tail about  her  husband,  the  wonder  that  her  sort  could 
remain  devoted  to  Ned  Lytton's  kind,  combined  to 
enrage  him,  to  make  him  rebel  hotly,  even  as  he  talked, 
at  thought  of  such  impossible  human  relations,  and  he 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  vent  to  his  indignation  when 
he  remembered  with  a  decided  shock  that  on  their  first 
meeting  she  had  told  him  that  she  loved  her  husband. 
Beyond  that,  he  reasoned,  nothing  could  be  said. 


74  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  He's  awful  weak,  of  course,  but  he  was  quiet,"  he 
concluded.  "  I  left  him  sleepin'  an'  I'll  get  back  before 
he  rouses  up,  it's  likely." 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  I  might  go  back  with  you?  " 
she  asked,  eagerly.  "  Don't  you  think  he's  strong 
enough  now,  so  I  might  be  with  him?  " 

He  had  expected  this  and  was  steeled  against  it. 

"  Why,  you  might,  ma'am,  if  things  was  different," 
he  said.  "  It's  sort  of  rough  out  there;  just  a  shack, 
understand,  an'  you've  never  lived  that  kind  of  life. 
There's  only  one  room,  an'  I  .   .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  hadn't  thought  of  crowding  you  out !  Please 
don't  think  I'd  overlook  your  own  comfort." 

Her  regret  was  so  spontaneous,  that  he  stirred  un- 
easily, for  he  was  not  accustomed  to  lying. 

"  Not  at  all,  ma'am.  Why,  I'd  move  out  an'  sleep 
in  th'  hills  for  you,  if  I  knew  it  was  best  .  .  .  for 
you !  " 

The  heart  that  was  in  his  voice  startled  her.  She 
sat  back  in  her  chair. 

"You've  been  very  kind  ...  so  kind!  "  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

He  fidgetted  in  his  chair  and  rose. 

"  Nobody  could  help  bein'  kind  ...  to  you, 
ma'am,"  he  stammered.  "  If  anybody  was  anything 
but  kind  to  you  they  deserve  .  .   ." 

He  realized  of  a  sudden  that  the  man  for  whose  sake 
she  was  undergoing  this  ordeal  had  been  cruel  to  her, 


TONGUES  WAG  75 

and  checked  himself.  Because  bitterness  surged  up 
within  him  and  he  felt  that  to  follow  his  first  impulses 
would  place  him  between  Ann  Lytton  and  her  husband, 
aligned  against  the  man  in  the  role  of  protector. 

She  divined  the  reason  for  his  silence  and  said  very 
gently, 

"  Remember  the  cripples!  " 

He  turned  toward  her  so  fiercely  that  she  started 
back,  having  risen. 

"  I'm  tryin'  to!  "  he  cried,  with  a  surprising  sharp- 
ness. "Tryin'  to,  ma'am,  every  minute;  tryin'  to  re- 
member th'  cripples." 

He  looked  about  in  flushed  confusion.  Ann  stared 
at  him. 

His  intensity  frightened  her.  The  men  of  her  ex- 
perience would  not  have  presumed  to  show  such  direct 
interest  in  her  affairs  on  brief  acquaintance.  A  deal 
of  conventional  sparring  and  shamming  would  have 
been  required  for  any  of  them  to  evince  a  degree  of 
passion  in  the  discussion  of  her  predicament;  but  this 
man,  on  their  second  meeting,  was  obviously  forced  to 
hold  himself  firmly,  restraining  a  natural  prompting  to 
step  in  and  adjust  matters  to  accord  with  his  own  sense 
of  right.  The  girl  felt  instinctively  that  his  motives 
were  most  high,  but  his  manner  was  rough  and  new; 
she  was  accustomed  to  the  usual,  the  familiar,  and, 
while  her  confidence  in  Bayard  had  been  profoundly 
aroused,   her  inherent  distrust  of  strangeness  caused 


76  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

her  to  suspect,  to  be  reluctant  to  accept  his  attitude  with- 
out reserve.  Looking  up  at  her  he  read  the  conflict 
in  her  face. 

"  I'd  better  go  now,"  he  added  in  a  voice  from  which 
the  vigor  had  gone.     "  I  .  .  ." 

"  But  you'll  let  me  know  about  Ned?  "  she  asked, 
trying  to  rally  her  composure. 

"  I'll  come  to-morrow,  ma'am,"  he  promised. 

"  That'll  be  so  kind  of  you !  " 

"  You  don't  understand,  maybe,  that  it's  no  kindness 
to  you,"  he  said.  "  It  might  be  somethin'  else.  Have 
you  thought  of  that?  Have  you  thought,  ma'am,  that 
maybe  I  ain't  th'  kind  of  man  I'm  pretendin'  to  be?  " 

Then,  he  walked  out  before  she  could  answer  and 
she  stood  alone,  his  words  augmenting  the  disquiet  his 
manner  had  aroused.  She  moved  to  the  window,  anx- 
iously waiting  to  see  him  ride  past.  He  did,  a  few 
minutes  later,  his  head  down  in  thought,  his  fine,  flat 
shoulders  braced  backward,  body  poised  splendidly, 
light,  masterly  in  the  saddle,  the  wonderful  creature 
under  him  moving  with  long,  sure  strides.  The 
woman  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned  back  into  the 
room. 

"  I  mustn't  ...  I  mustn't,"  she  whispered. 

Then  wheeled  quickly,  snatched  back  the  curtains 
and  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  upper  panes  to  catch 
a  last  glimpse  of  him. 

Next  day  Bayard  was  back  and  found  that  the  hours 


TONGUES  WAG  77 

Ann  had  spent  alone  had  taken  their  toll  and  she  con- 
trolled herself  only  by  continual  repression.  He  urged 
her  to  talk,  hoping  to  start  her  thinking  fresh 
thoughts,  but  she  could  think,  then,  only  of  the  present 
hour.  Her  loneliness  had  again  broken  down  all 
barriers.  Bayard  was  her  confessor,  her  talk  with 
him  the  only  outlet  for  the  emotional  pressure  that 
threatened  her  self-control;  that  relief  was  imperative, 
overriding  her  distrust  of  the  day  before.  For  an  hour 
the  man  listened  while  she  gave  him  the  dreary  details 
of  her  married  life  with  that  eagerness  of  the  individual 
who,  for  too  long  a  period,  has  hidden  and  nursed 
heart-breaking  troubles.  She  was  only  twenty-four 
and  had  married  at  twenty.  A  year  later  Ned's  father 
had  died,  the  boy  came  into  sudden  command  of  con- 
siderable property,  lost  his  head,  frittered  away  the 
fortune,  drank,  could  not  face  the  condemnation  of  his 
family  and  fled  West  on  the  pretext  of  developing  the 
Sunset  mine,  the  last  tangible  asset  that  remained.  She 
tried  to  cover  the  entire  truth  there,  but  Bayard  knew 
that  Lytton's  move  was  only  desertion,  for  she  told 
of  going  to  work  to  support  herself,  of  standing  be- 
tween Ned  and  his  relatives,  of  shielding  him  from  the 
consequences  of  the  misadministration  of  his  father's 
estate,  of  waiting  weeks  and  months  for  word  of  him, 
of  denying  herself  actual  necessities  that  she  might 
come  West  on  this  mission. 

At  the  end  she  cried  and  Bayard  felt  an  unholy  de- 
sire to  ride  to  his  Circle  A  ranch  and  do  violence  to  the 


78  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

man  who  had  functioned  in  this  woman's  life  as  a  maker 
of  misery.  But  he  merely  sat  there  and  put  his  hands 
under  his  thighs  to  keep  them  from  reaching  out  for 
the  woman,  to  comfort  her,  to  claim  a  place  as  her  pro- 
tector. .  .  . 

The  talk  and  tears  relieved  Ann  and  she  smiled 
bravely  at  him  when  he  left;  a  tenderness  was  in  her 
face  that  disturbed  him. 

Day  after  day  the  rancher  appeared  in  Yavapai, 
each  time  going  directly  to  the  hotel  and  to  Ann. 
Many  times  he  talked  to  her  in  her  room;  often,  they 
were  seen  together  on  the  veranda;  occasionally,  they 
walked  short  distances.  The  eyes  of  the  community 
were  on  Ann  anyhow,  because,  being  new,  she  was  in- 
trinsically interesting,  but  this  regularity  on  the  part  of 
Bayard  could  not  help  but  attract  curious  attention  and 
cause  gossip,  for  in  the  years  people  had  watched  him 
grow  from  a  child  to  manhood  one  of  the  accepted  facts 
about  him  had  been  his  evident  lack  of  interest  in 
women.  To  Nora,  the  waitress,  he  had  given  frank, 
companionable  attention  and  regarding  them  was  a 
whispered  tradition  arising  when  the  unknown  girl  ar- 
rived in  Yavapai  and  Bruce  appeared  to  be  on  intimate 
terms  with  her  from  the  first. 

But  now  Nora  received  little  enough  of  his  time. 
She  watched  his  comings  and  goings  with  a  growing 
concern  which  she  kept  in  close  secret  and  no  one,  unless 
they  had  watched  ever  so  closely,  would  have  seen  the 
slow  change  that  came  over  the  brown  haired  girl. 


TONGUES  WAG  79 

Her  amiable  bearing  toward  the  people  she  served  be- 
came slightly  forced,  her  laughter  grew  a  trifle  hard, 
and,  when  Bruce  was  in  sight,  she  kept  her  eyes  on 
him  with  steady  inquiry,  as  one  who  reads  eagerly  and 
yet  dreads  to  know  what  is  written. 

One  day  the  cattleman  came  from  the  hotel  and 
crossed  the  street  to  the  Yavapai  saloon  where  a  dozen 
men  were  assembled.  Tommy  Clary  was  there  among 
others  and,  when  they  lined  up  before  the  bar  on 
Bruce's  arrival,  feet  on  the  piece  of  railroad  steel  that 
did  service  as  footrail,  Tommy,  with  a  wink  to  the  man 
at  his  right  said: 

"  Now,  Bruce,  you're  just  in  time  to  settle  'n  argu- 
ment. All  these  here  other  hombres  are  sayin'  you've 
lost  your  head  an'  are  clean  skirt  crazy,  an'  I've  been 
tellin'  'em  that  you're  only  tryin'  to  be  a  brother  to  her. 
Ain't  that  right,  now?     Just  back  me  up,  Bruce !  " 

He  stood  back  and  gestured  in  mock  appeal,  while 
the  others  leaned  forward  over  the  bar  at  varying  de- 
grees that  they  might  see  and  grinned  in  silence.  Bay- 
ard looked  straight  before  him  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  twitched  in  a  half  smile. 

"  Who  is  this  lady  you're  honorin'  by  hitchin'  me  up 
with?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ho,  that's  good!  I  s'pose  you  don't  quite  com- 
prehend our  meanin' !  Well,  I'll  help  you  out.  This 
Lytton  girl,  sister  to  our  hydrophobia  skunk !  They 
think  you're  in  love,  Bruce,  but  I  stick  up  for  you  like 
a  friend  ought  to.     I  think  you're  only  brotherly!  " 


80  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Why,  Tommy,  they  ought  to  take  your  word  on 
anythin'  like  that,"  Bayard  countered,  turning  slowly 
to  face  the  other.  "  Th'  reason  th'  Yavapai  Argus 
perished  was  'cause  Tom  Clary  beat  th'  editor  to  all  th' 
news,  wasn't  it?  " 

The  laugh  was  on  the  short  cowboy  and  he  joined  it 
heartily. 

"  But  if  that's  true  —  that  brother  stuff  — ,"  he  said, 
when  he  could  be  heard,  "  seems  to  me  you're  throwin' 
in  with  a  fine  sample  of  stalwart  manhood!  " 

Then  they  were  off  on  a  concerted  damnation  of  Ned 
Lytton  and  under  its  cover  Bayard  thanked  his  stars 
that  Nora  had  been  right,  that  Yavapai  had  been 
satisfied  with  jumping  at  the  conclusion  that  Ann  could 
not  be  her  husband's  wife. 

"  But  I'll  tell  you,  Bruce,"  went  on  Tommy,  as  Bay- 
ard started  to  leave,  "  if  I  was  as  pretty  a  fellow  as  you 
are,  I'd  make  a  play  for  that  gal  myself!  If  she'd 
only  get  to  know  me  an'  know  'bout  my  brains,  it'd  all 
be  downhill  an'  shady.  But  she  won't.  You  got  th' 
looks;  I've  got  th'  horse  power  in  my  head.  Can't  we 
form  a  combination?  " 

"  I'm  sort  of  again'  combinations  .  .  .  where 
women  are  concerned,"  Bruce  answered,  and  walked 
out  before  they  could  see  the  seriousness  that  pos- 
sessed him. 

On  his  way  out  of  town  Bayard  passed  two  friends 
but  did  not  look  at  them  nor  appear  to  hear  their 
salutations.     He  was  a  mile  up  the  road  before  his  ab- 


TONGUES  WAG  81 

sorption  gave  way  to  a  shake  of  the  head  and  the  fol- 
lowing summing  up,  spoken  to  the  jogging  Abe: 

"  Gosh,  Pardner,  back  there  they've  all  got  me  in 
love  with  her.  I  had  a  hard  time  keepin'  my  head, 
when  they  tried  to  josh  me  about  it.  I  ain't  ever  ad- 
mitted it  to  myself,  even,  but  has  that  —  not  ad- 
mittin'  it  —  got  anything  to  do  with  it,  I  wonder? 
Does  it  keep  it  from  bein'  so?  Why  should  I  get  hot, 
if  it  ain't  true?  " 

When  they  were  in  sight  of  the  ranch,  he  spoke 
again, 

"  How  'n  th'  name  of  God  can  a  man  help  lovin'  a 
woman  like  that?  " 

And  in  answer  to  the  assertion  that  popped  up  in 
his  mind,  he  cried  aloud:  "  He  ain't  no  man;  he  ain't 
.  .  .  an'  she  loves  him!  " 

He  put  the  stallion  into  a  high  lope  then,  partly  to 
relieve  the  stress  of  his  thinking,  partly  because  he 
suddenly  realized  that  he  had  been  away  from  the 
ranch  many  hours.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Lytton 
had  been  up  and  about  when  he  departed  and  he  won- 
dered if,  in  the  interval,  the  man  had  left  the  ranch, 
had  stolen  a  march  on  him,  and  escaped  to  Yavapai  or 
elsewhere  to  find  stimulant. 

Lytton's  improvement  seemed  to  have  been  marked 
in  the  last  two  days.  That  forenoon,  when  Bayard 
told  him  he  was  to  go  to  town,  the  man  had  insisted  on 
helping  with  the  work,  though  his  body  was  still  weak. 
He  had  been  pleasant,  almost  jovial,  and  it  was  with 


82  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

pride  that  the  rancher  had  told  Ann  of  the  results  he 
had  obtained  by  his  care  and  his  patience;  had  spoken 
with  satisfaction  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  that  ulti- 
mate success  meant  a  snuffing  out  of  the  fire  that 
burned  in  his  heart  .  .  .  the  fire  that  he  would  not  yet 
admit  existed. 

Arrived  at  the  ranch,  Bruce  forced  the  sorrel  against 
his  gate,  leaned  low  to  release  the  fastening  and  went 
on  through.  He  was  grave  of  face  and  silent  and  he 
walked  toward  the  house  after  dismounting,  deep  in 
thought,  struggling  with  the  problem  of  conduct  which 
was  evolving  from  the  circumstance  in  which  he  found 
himself. 

On  the  threshold,  after  looking  into  the  kitchen,  he 
stood  poised  a  moment.  Then,  with  a  cry  of  anger  he 
strode  into  the  room,  halted  and  looked  about  him. 

"  You  damned  liar!  "  he  cried  into  the  silence. 

Ned  Lytton  lay  across  the  bed,  face  downward, 
breathing  muffled  by  the  tumbled  blankets,  and  on  the 
floor  beside  him  was  an  empty  whiskey  bottle. 

"  You  liar!  "  Bayard  said  again.  "  You  strung  me 
this  mornin',  didn't  you?  This  was  why  you  was  so 
crazy  to  help  me  get  an  early  start !     You  coyote !  " 

He  moved  noisily  across  the  room  and  halted  again 
to  survey  the  scene.  A  cupboard  had  been  roughly 
emptied  and  the  clock  had  been  overturned  when  Lyt- 
ton searched  its  shelf;  in  another  room  an  old  dresser 
stood  gaping,  the  things  it  had  contained  in  a  pile  on 
the  floor,  its  drawers  flung  in  a  corner.     Everywhere 


TONGUES  WAG  83 

was  evidence  of  a  hurried  search  for  a  hidden  thing. 
And  that  sought  object  was  the  bottle,  the  contents  of 
which  had  sent  the  prostrate  figure  into  its  present 
state. 

"  You're  just  .  .  .  carrion!"  he  said,  disgustedly, 
staring  at  Lytton. 

Then,  with  set  face,  he  undressed  the  man,  laid  him 
gently  on  the  pillows  and  covered  him  well. 

"  God  help  me  to  remember  that  you're  a  cripple !  " 
he  muttered,  and  turned  to  straighten  the  disorder  of 
his  house.  . 

An  hour  later  Bayard  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside, 
seated  himself  and  frowned  steadily  at  the  sleeping 
man. 

"  I've  got  to  remember  you're  a  cripple  .  .  .  got 
to,"  he  said,  over  and  over.  "  For  her  sake,  I  must. 
An'  I  can't  .  .  .  trust  myself  near  her  ...   I  can't!  " 

The  drunken  man  roused  himself  with  a  start  and 
stared  blearily,  unintelligently  into  the  other's  face. 

"Tha's  righ',  Ole  Man,"  he  mumbled.  "  Tha's 
ri'.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    HEART    SPEAKS 

With  forebodings  Bruce  Bayard  went  to  Ann  Lytton 
the  next  day.  She  saw  trouble  on  his  face  as  he 
entered  her  room. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  quietly,  steadying  her- 
self, for  she  was  ever  ready  for  the  worst. 

He  only  continued  to  look  gravely  at  her. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Bayard.  I  can 
stand  it;  you  can't  hide  it." 

He  looked  at  her,  until  he  made  sure  that  she  was 
not  speculating,  that  she  was  certain  that  he  brought 
her  bad  news. 

"  Yesterday,  while  I  was  here,  your  husband  ran- 
sacked my  house  an'  found  a  quart  of  whiskey  I 
had.   .  .  ." 

"  Oh  I  After  he  sent  you  away,  making  you 
feel  .  .  ." 

I  You  know  him  right  well,  ma'am,"  he  interrupted. 
"  Yes,  I  guess  all  his  show  of  bein'  himself  in  th' 
mornin'  was  to  get  me  to  move  out  so  he  could  look  for 
th'  booze.  He  knew  it  was  there;  he'd  been  waitin' 
this  chance,  I  expect." 

"  How  awful !     What  a  way  to  treat  you." 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  85 

He  smiled.  "  Don't  mind  me,  ma'am;  I'm  thinkin' 
about  you." 

She  looked  back  at  him  bravely. 

"  And  the  other  day  .  .  .  when  you  left,  you  tried 
to  make  me  stop  thinking  these  kind  things  about  you," 
she  challenged.  "  You  suggested  that  your  interest 
in  Ned  and  in  me  might  not  be  fine." 

It  did  not  occur  to  either  of  them  that  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, under  those  conditions  which  they  told  them- 
selves prevailed,  talk  and  thought  of  their  own  special 
relations  was  out  of  place. 

"  I'm  only  doin'  what  I  can  .  .  .  for  you,"  he  as- 
sured her.  "  An'  I  guess  it  ain't  much  I  can  do.  I'm 
kind  of  a  failure  at  reformin'  men,  I  guess.  I  want 
to  keep  on  tryin',  though.  I," — he  moistened  his 
lips  — "  I  don't  like  to  think  of  givin'  up  an'  I  don't 
like  to  think  of  turnin'  him  over  to  you  like  he  is." 

She  smiled  appreciatively,  downing  her  misery  for 
the  moment,  and  hastened  to  say: 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better,  if  I  were  there 
now?  You  see,  I  could  be  with  him  all  the  time,  watch 
him,  help  him  over  the  worst  days.  It  surely  wouldn't 
set  him  back  to  see  me  now. 

"  And  might  it  not  be  that  living  alone  with  you, 
away  from  the  things  he  needs:  good  care,  the  comforts 
he's  been  brought  up  to  know,  the  right  food  .   .   ." 

So  confused  was  Bayard  before  the  conviction  that 
he  must  meet  this  argument,  that  he  proceeded  without 
caution,  without  thought  of  the  foundation  of  lies  on 


86  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

which  his  separation  of  husband  and  wife  rested,  be 
burst  out: 

"  But  he  has  them  there!  Here,  ma'am,  he'd  been 
seein'  an'  hearin'  folks,  he'd  be  tempted  continually. 
Out  there  .  .  .  why,  ma'am,  he  don't  see  nobody, 
hear  nothin'.  He  couldn't  be  more  comfortable. 
There  ain't  a  house  in  Yavapai,  not  one  this  side  o' 
Prescott,  that's  better  fixed  up.  I  brought  out  a  bed 
for  him  into  th'  kitchen  so  't  would  be  lighter,  easier  for 
him  to  be  watched.  He  ...  I  have  sheets  for  him 
an'  good  beddin'.     I  got  eggs  an'  fruit  an'   .  .  ." 

The  perplexity  on  her  face  stopped  him. 

"  But  you  said,  you  said  it  was  too  rough  for  a 
woman,  that  it  wasn't  much  of  a  house,  that  it  only  had 
one  room,  that  it  .  .   ." 

One  hand  extended,  leaning  toward  him,  brows 
raised,  accusing,  she  sought  for  explanation  and  she 
saw  his  face  flood  with  flush,  saw  his  chest  fill. 

"  Well,  I  lied  to  you,"  he  said,  the  lines  of  his  body 
going  suddenly  lax  as  he  half  turned  from  her.  "  It 
ain't  rough.     It's  a  pretty  fair  outfit." 

She  dropped  her  hands  until  they  met  before  her  and 
a  look  of  offended  trust,  came  into  her  face,  settling 
the  lines  about  her  mouth  into  an  expression  of  deter- 
mination. 

"But  why?"  she  asked  him.  "Why  should  you 
lie  to  me  and  keep  me  from  Ned,  my  husband?  I 
trusted  you;  I  believed  what  you  said.  Why  was  it, 
Mr.  Bayard?" 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  87 

He  turned  on  her,  eyes  burning,  color  running  from 
his  face. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,  ma'am,"  he  said,  chokingly,  as 
though  his  lungs  were  too  full  of  air.  "  I'll  tell  you : 
It's  because  I  didn't  dare  trust  myself  under  th'  same 
roof  with  you,  that's  why;  it's  because  I  know  that  if 
you're  around  me  you'll  be  .  .  .  you'll  be  in  danger. 

"  No  man  should  tempt  himself  too  far  an'  't  would 
be  temptin',  if  I  was  to  let  you  come  there.  You  don't 
know  this  country.  You  don't  know  us  men  .  .  .  men 
like  I  am.  I  don't  know  your  kind  of  men  myself;  but 
we're  rough,  we're  not  nice  when  we  want  a  thing.  We 
haven't  got  nice  manners.  I  tell  you,  ma'am,  I  want 
to  help  you  all  I  can,  but  I've  got  to  look  out  for  my- 
self, you  see!  Do  you  see  that,  ma'am?  I  thought  I 
could  see  you  now  an'  then  safe  enough,  but  I  can't 
I  guess.  .  .  .  This  had  to  come  out;  it  had  to !  " 

A  forearm  half  raised  she  stepped  back  from  him, 
settling  her  weight  to  one  foot.  He  breathed  heavily 
twice  to  relieve  the  congestion  that  strained  his  voice. 

"  When  I  stood  down  there  th'  other  night," —  ges- 
turing toward  the  entrance  of  the  hotel — "  an'  looked 
into  the  darkness  an'  saw  your  face  there,  it  was  like 
an  angel  ...  or  somethin'.  It  caught  me  in  th' 
throat,  it  made  my  knees  shake  —  an'  they've  never 
shook  from  fear  or  anythin'  else  in  my  life.  When 
we  set  in  that  next  room  washin'  out  that  wound, 
bindin'  it  up,  I  didn't  give  a  damn  if  that  man  lived  or 
died—" 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried,  and  drew  away  another  step,  but 


88  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

he  followed  close,  bound  that  she  should  hear,  should 
understand. 

" —  If  he  lived  or  died,"  he  repeated.  "  I  wanted 
to  be  near  you,  to  watch  your  fingers,  to  see  th'  move 
of  your  shoulders,  to  look  at  th' —  th'  pink  of  your  neck 
through  your  waist,  to  see  your  lips  an'  your  eyes  an' 
your  hair  .  .  .  ma'am.  I  didn't  give  a  damn  about 
that  man.  It  was  you;  your  strangeness,  your  nerve, 
your  sand,  I  wanted  to  see,  to  know  about  .,  .  .  an' 
your  looks.  Then  you  said,  you  said  he  was  your  hus- 
band an'  for  a  minute  I  wanted  him  to  die,  I  did! 
That  was  a  black  minute,  ma'am;  things  went  round, 
I  didn't  know  what  was  happenin'.  Then,  I  come  out 
of  it  and  I  realized ;  realized  what  kind  of  a  woman  you 
are,  if  you'd  come  clear  from  th'  East  on  th'  trail  of  a 
.  .  .  a  .  .  .  your  husband,  an'  speak  of  him  as  a 
cripple  an'  be  as  ...  as  wrought  up  over  him  as  you 
was  — 

"  I  thought  then,  like  a  fool  I  was,  that  I'd  be  doin' 
somethin'  fine  if  I  took  that  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  your  hus- 
band an'  made  a  man  of  him  an'  sent  him  back  to  you, 
a  man!  " 

He  gulped  and  breathed  and  his  hands  fell  to  his 
sides.     He  moved  back  an  awkward  pace. 

"  Well,  it  would," —  averting  his  face.  The  reso- 
nance had  gone  from  his  voice.  "  It  would  have  been 
fine.     It  ...  it  will  be  fine," —  in  a  whisper. 

"  But  I  can't  stand  you  around,"  he  muttered,  the 
tone  rallying  some  of  its  strength.     "  I  can't;  I  can't! 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  89 

I  couldn't  have  you  in  th'  same  room  in  my  sight.  I'd 
keep  thinkin'  what  he  is  an'  what  you  are;  comparin' 
you.     It'd  tear  my  heart  out ! 

"  Ma'am  don't  think  I  ain't  tried  to  fight  against 
this  !  "  extending  his  palms  pleadingly.  "  I've  thought 
about  you  every  minute  since  I  first  saw  you  down  there 
'n  th'  hallway.  I've  lied  to  myself,  I've  tried  to  make 
myself  think  different  but  I  can't!  I  can't  help  it, 
ma'am  ...  an'  I  don't  know  as  I  would  if  I  could, 
'cause  it's  somethin'  I  never  knew  could  be  before  !  " 

He  was  talking  through  clenched  teeth  now,  swiftly, 
words  running  together,  and  the  woman,  a  hand  on  her 
lips,  gave  evidence  of  a  queer,  fascinating  fright. 

He  had  said  that  she  did  not  know  his  sort  of  man. 
He  had  spoken  truth  there.  And  because  she  did  not 
know  his  breed,  she  did  not  know  how  to  judge  him 
now.  Would  he  really  harm  her?  Was  he  pos- 
sessed of  desires  and  urgings  of  which  he  had  no  con- 
trol? She  put  those  questions  to  herself  and  yet  she 
could  not  make  her  own  heart  believe  the  very  things 
he  had  told  her  about  himself.  She  feared,  yes;  but 
about  the  quality  she  feared  was  a  strong  fascination. 
He  caused  her  to  sense  his  own  uncurbed  vitality,  yet 
about  the  danger  of  which  he  talked  was  a  compelling 
quality  that  urged  her  on,  that  made  her  want  to  know 
that  danger  intimately  ...  to  suffer,  perhaps,  but  to 
know ! 

"  You'll  let  me  alone,  won't  you,  ma'am?  "  he  con- 
tinued.    "You'll  stay  away?     You'll  stay  right  here 


9o  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

an'  give  me  a  chance  to  play  my  hand?  I'll  make  him 
or  break  him,  ma'am!  I'll  send  him  back  to  you,  if 
there's  a  spark  of  man  left  in  him,  I  will;  I  promise 
you  that!     I  will  because  you're  th'  only  woman — " 

"Don't!"  She  threw  up  a  hand  as  she  cried 
sharply,  "  Don't  say  it!  " 

"  I  will  say  it!  "  he  declared,  moving  to  her  again. 
"I  will! 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you !  I  love  that  lock  of  hair 
blowin'  across  your  cheek;  I  love  that  scared  look  in 
your  eyes  now;  I  love  th'  way  th'  blood's  pumpin'  in 
your  veins;  I  love  you  ...  all  of  you.  But  you  told 
me  th'  other  night,  you  loved  your  husband.  I  asked 
you.  You  said  you  did.  '  I  do,'  that's  what  you  said. 
I  know  how  you  looked,  how  it  sounded,  when  you  said 
it,  c  I  do.'  That's  why  I'm  workin'  with  him;  that's 
why  I  want  to  make  him  a  man.  You  can't  waste  your 
lovin',  ma'am;  you  can't!  " 

He  stepped  even  closer. 

"  That's  why  you've  got  to  keep  away  from  me  1 
You  can't  handle  him  alone.  You  can't  come  to  my 
ranch  to  handle  him  because  of  me.  Nobody  else  will 
take  him  in  around  here.  It's  me  or  nobody.  It's  my 
way  or  th'  old  way  he's  been  goin'  until  he  comes  to  th' 
end. 

"  I  promise  you  this.  I'll  watch  over  him  an'  care 
for  him  an'  guard  him  in  every  way.  I'll  put  the  best 
I've  got  into  bringin'  him  back.  .  .  .  An'  all  th'  time 
I'll  be  wishin' —  prayin',  if  I  could  —  that  a  thunder- 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  91 

bolt  'uld  strike  him  dead !  He  ain't  fit  for  you,  ma'am ! 
He's  no  more  fit  for  you  than  .  .   .  than  .   .  . 

"  Hell,  ma'am,  there's  no  use  talkin' !  He's  your 
husband,  you've  said  you  loved  him,  that's  enough. 
But  if  he,  if  he  wasn't  your  husband,  if  he  .  .  ." 

He  jerked  open  the  front  of  his  shirt,  reached  in 
and  drew  out  his  flat,  blue  automatic  pistol. 

She  started  back  with  a  cry. 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  cried  fiercely,  grasp- 
ing her  wrist.      "  Don't  you  ever! 

"You  take  this  gun;  you  keep  it.  It's  mine.  I 
don't  want  to  be  able  to  hurt  him,  if  I  should  ever  lose 
my  head.  Sometimes  when  I  set  there  an'  look  at  him 
an'  hear  him  cussin'  me,  I  get  hot  in  th'  head;  hot  an' 
heavy  an'  it  buzzes.  I  ...  I  thought  maybe  some- 
time I  might  go  crazy  an'  shoot  him," —  with  deadly 
seriousness.  "  An'  I  wouldn't  do  that,  ma'am,  not  to 
yours,  no  matter  what  he  might  do  or  say  to  me.  I 
brought  my  rifle  in  to-day  to  have  th'  sights  fixed;  they 
needed  it  an'  't  would  get  it  out  of  th'  house.  You'll 
keep  this  gun,  won't  you,  please,  ma'am?  " 

His  pleading  was  as  direct  as  that  of  a  child  and, 
eyes  on  his  with  a  mingling  of  emotions,  Ann  Lytton 
reached  a  groping  hand  for  the  weapon.  She  was 
stunned.  Her  nervous  weakness,  his  strength,  the  put- 
ting into  words  of  that  great  love  he  bore  for  her,  the 
suggested  picture  of  contrast  with  the  man  between 
them,  the  conflict  it  all  aroused  in  her  conscience,  the 
reasonless  surging  of  her  deepest  emotions,  combined 


92  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

to  bewilder  the  woman.  She  reached  out  slowly  to 
take  his  weapon  and  do  his  bidding,  moved  by  a  sub- 
conscious desire  to  obey,  and  all  the  while  her  eyes 
grew  wider,  her  breath  faster  in  its  slipping  between 
her  parted  lips. 

Her  fingers  touched  the  metal,  warmed  by  his  body 
heat,  closed  on  it  and  her  hand,  holding  the  pistol,  fell 
back  to  her  side.  She  turned  her  face  from  him  and, 
with  a  palm  hard  against  one  cheek,  whispered, 

"  Oh,  this  is  horrible !  " 

The  man  made  a  wry  smile. 

"  I  presume  it  is,  ma'am," —  drearily,  "  but  I  can't 
help  it,  lovin'  you." 

"  No,  no,  not  that !  "  she  cried.  "  I  didn't  mean  that 
was  horrible.  It  ...  it  isn't.  The  horrible  thing  is 
the  rest,  the  whole  situation." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  he  went  on,  heedless  of  her  explana- 
tion, moving  toward  the  window  and  looking  into  the 
street  as  he  talked,  his  back  to  her.  "  I  know  it  is, 
but  it  had  to  be.  If  I  had  kept  from  talkin'  it  would 
sort  of  festered  in  me.  When  a  horse  runs  some- 
thin'  in  his  foot,  you've  got  to  cut  th'  hoof  away,  got 
to  hurt  him  for  a  while,  or  it'll  go  bad  with  him.  Let 
what's  in  there  out  an'  gettin'  along  will  be  simple. 

"  That's  how  it  was  with  me,  you  see.  If  I'd  kept 
still,  I'd  'a'  gone  sort  of  loco,  I  might  have  hurt  him. 
But  now  .  .  . 

"  Why,  now,  I  can  just  remember  that  you  know  how 
I  feel,  that  you  wouldn't  want  a  man  who's  said  he  loves 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  93 

you  to  be  anythin'  but  kind  to  your  ...  to  Ned  Lyt- 
ton." 

When  he  finished,  the  woman  took  just  one  step  for- 
ward. It  was  an  impulsive  movement,  as  if  she  would 
run  to  him,  throw  herself  on  him;  and  her  lips  were 
parted,  her  throat  ready  to  cry  out  and  ask  him  to  take 
her  and  forget  all  else  but  that  love  he  had  declared 
for  her.  In  a  flash  the  madness  was  past;  she  remem- 
bered that  she  must  not  forget  anything  because  of  his 
confession  of  love,  rather  that  she  must  keep  more 
firmly  than  ever  in  mind  those  other  factors  of  her  life, 
that  she  must  stifle  and  throttle  this  yearning  for  the 
man  before  her  which  had  been  latent,  the  existence  of 
which  she  had  denied  to  herself  until  this  hour,  and 
which  was  consuming  her  strength  now  with  its  desire 
for  expression. 

She  walked  slowly  to  the  dresser  and  laid  his  gun 
there,  as  though  even  its  slight  weight  were  a  burden. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  as  though  physically  weak, 
"  I'm  so  sorry."  He  turned  away  from  the  window 
with  a  helpless  smile.  "  I  don't  feel  right,  now,  in  let- 
ting you  do  this  for  me.     I  feel  .   .  ." 

"  Why  don't  you  feel  right?  " 

11  Because  .  .  .  because  it  means  that  you  are  giving 
me  everything  and  I'm  giving  nothing  in  return." 

"  Don't  think  that,  ma'am,"  with  a  slow,  convinced 
shaking  of  his  head,  "  I'm  doin'  little  enough  for  what 
I  get." 

"  For  what  you  get!  " 


94  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  What  I  get,  ma'am,  is  this.  I  can  come  to  see 
you.  I  can  look  at  your  face,  I  can  see  your  hair,  I  can 
watch  you  move  an'  hear  you  talk  an'  be  near  you  now 
an'  then,  even  if  I  ain't  any  right,  even  if  .   .  ." 

He  threw  out  his  arms  and  let  them  fall  back  to  his 
thighs  as  he  turned  from  her  again. 

"  That's  what  I  get  in  exchange,"  he  continued  a  mo- 
ment later.  "  That's  my  pay,  an'  for  it,  I'd  go  through 
anything,  thirst  or  hunger  or  cold  .  .  .  anythin', 
ma'am.  That's  how  much  I  think  of  you:  that's  why 
carin'  for  .  .  .  for  that  man  out  home  ain't  any  job 
even  if  he  is  .  .  .  if  you  are  his  !  " 

On  that,  doubt,  desire,  again  overrode  her  training, 
her  traditional  manner  of  thought.  She  struggled  to 
find  words,  but  she  could  not  even  clarify  her  ideas. 
Impressions  came  to  her  in  hot,  passing  flashes.  A 
dozen  times  she  was  on  the  point  of  crying  out,  of  tell- 
ing him  one  thing  or  another,  but  each  time  the  thought 
was  gone  before  she  could  seize  upon  and  crystallize 
it.  All  she  fully  realized  was  that  this  thing  was  love, 
big,  clean,  sanctified;  that  this  man  was  a  natural  lover 
of  women,  with  a  body  as  great,  as  fine  as  the  heart 
which  could  so  reveal  itself  to  her;  and  that  in  spite  of 
that  love's  quality  she  was  helpless,  bound,  gagged 
even,  by  the  circumstances  that  life  had  thrown  about 
her.  She  would  have  cried  out  against  them,  denounc- 
ing it  all  .   .   . 

Only  for  the  fact  that  that  thing,  conscience,  handed 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  95 

down  to  her  through  strict-living  generations,  kept  her 
still,  binding  her  to  silence,  to  passivity. 

"  I  won't  bother  you  again  this  way,"  she  heard  him 
saying,  his  voice  sounding  unreal  as  it  forced  its  way 
through  the  roaring  in  her  head.  "  I  had  to  get  it  out 
of  my  system,  or  it'd  have  gone  in  some  other  direc- 
tion; reaction,  they  call  it,  I  guess.  Then,  somebody'd 
have  been  hurt  or  somethin'  broken,  maybe  your 
heart," —  looking  at  her  with  his  patient  smile. 

"  I'll  go  back  home;  I'll  work  with  him.  Some- 
times, I'll  come  to  see  you,  if  you  don't  mind,  to  tell  you 
about  .   .   .  him.     You  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

With  an  obvious  effort,  she  shook  her  head.  "  No, 
I  don't  mind.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  you,"  she  muttered, 
holding  her  self-possession  doggedly. 

An  awkward  pause  followed  in  which  Bayard  fussed 
with  the  ends  of  the  gay  silk  scarf  that  hung  about  his 
neck  and  shoulders. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  go  now,"  he  mumbled,  and  picked 
up  his  hat. 

"  You  see,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,"  Ann 
confessed,  drawing  a  hand  across  her  eyes.  "  It  has 
all  overwhelmed  me  so.  I  .  .  .  perhaps  another  time 
I  can  talk  it  over  with  you." 

"  If  you  think  it's  best  to  mention  it  again,  ma'am," 
he  said. 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  he  clasped  it.  On 
the  contact,  his  arm  trembled  as  though  he  would  crush 


96  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

the  small  fingers  in  his,  but  the  grasp  went  no  further 
than  a  formal  shake. 

"  In  a  day  or  two  .  .  .  Ann,"  he  said,  using  her 
given  name  for  the  first  time. 

He  bowed  low,  turned  quickly  and  half  stumbled  into 
the  hall,  closing  the  door  behind  him  as  he  went. 

The  woman  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  weakly. 

In  the  dining  room  Nora  Brewster  was  dusting  and 
she  looked  up  quickly  at  Bayard's  entrance. 

"  Hello,  Bruce,"  she  said,  eyes  fastening  on  him 
eagerly.  "  You're  gettin'  to  be  a  frequent  caller,  ain't 
you?" 

He  tried  to  smile  when  he  answered, 

"  Hardly  a  caller;  kind  of  an  errand  boy,  between 
bein'  a  nurse  an'  jailer." 

He  could  not  deceive  the  girl.  She  dropped  her 
dustcloth  to  a  chair,  scanning  his  face  intently. 

"What's  wrong,  Bruce?  You  look  all  frazzled 
out." 

He  could  not  know  how  she  feared  his  answer. 

"  Nothin',"  he  evaded.  "  He's  been  pretty  bad  an' 
I've  missed  sleep  lately;  that's  all." 

But  that  explanation  did  not  satisfy  Nora.  She 
knew  it  was  not  the  whole  truth.  She  searched  his 
face  suspiciously. 

"  She  ...  his  wife,"  he  went  on,  steadying  his 
voice.     "  It's  hard  on  her,  Nora." 

"  I   know   it   is,   poor   thing,"    she    replied,    almost 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  97 

mechanically.  "  I  talk  to  her  every  time  I  can,  but  she, 
she  ain't  my  kind,  Bruce.  You  know  that.  The'  ain't 
much  I  can  say  to  her.  Besides,  I  dasn't  let  on  that  I 
know  who  she  is  or  that  you've  got  her  husband." 

Her  eyes  still  held  on  his  inquiringly. 

"  You  might  get  her  outdoors,"  he  ventured. 
"  Keepin'  in  that  room  day  an'  night,  worryin'  as  she 
does,  is  worse  'n  jail.  You  .  .  .  You  ride  a  lot. 
Why  don't  you  get  her  some  ridin'  clothes  an'  take  her 
along?  I'll  tell  Nate  to  give  you  an  extra  horse.  You 
see  .  .  . 

The  girl  did  see.  She  saw  his  anxiety  for  the  woman 
upstairs.  She  knew  the  truth  then,  and  the  thing  which 
she  had  feared  through  those  days  rang  in  her  head  like 
a  sullen  tocsin.  She  had  felt  an  uneasiness  come  into 
her  heart  with  the  arrival  of  this  eastern  woman,  this 
product  of  another  civilization  with  her  sweetness, 
her  charm  for  both  her  own  sex  and  for  men.  And 
that  uneasiness  had  grown  to  apprehension,  had 
mounted  as  she  watched  the  change  in  Bayard 
under  Ann's  influence  until  now,  when  she  realized  that 
the  thing  which  she  had  hoped  against  for  months, 
which  she  had  felt  impending  for  days,  had  become 
reality;  and  that  she,  Bayard,  Ned  Lytton,  Ann,  were 
fast  in  the  meshes  of  circumstances  that  bound  and  shut 
down  upon  them  like  a  net,  forecasting  tragedy  and 
the  destruction  of  hopes.  Nora  feared,  she  feared 
with  that  groundless,  intuitive  fear  peculiar  to  her 
kind;  almost  an  animal  instinct,  and  she  felt  her  heart 


98  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

leaping,  her  head  becoming  giddy  as  that  warning  note 
struck  and  reverberated  through  her  consciousness. 
Her  gaze  left  the  man's  face  slowly,  her  shoulders 
slackened  and  almost  impatiently  she  turned  back  to 
her  work  that  he  might  not  see  the  foreboding  about 
her. 

"  You  see,  th'  open  air  would  help  her,  an'  bein'  with 
you,  another  woman,  even  if  you  an'  she  don't  talk  th' 
same  language,  would  help  too/'  he  ended. 

"  I  see,"  Nora  answered  after  a  moment,  as  she 
tilted  a  chair  to  one  leg  and  stooped  low  to  rub  the  dust 
from  its  spindles.  "  I  understand,  Bruce.  I'll  take 
her  to  ride  .  .  .  every  day,  if  you  think  it's  best." 

Something  about  her  made  Bayard  pause,  and  the 
moment  of  silence  which  followed  was  an  uneasy  one 
for  him.  The  girl  kept  on  with  her  task,  eyes  averted, 
and  he  did  not  notice  that  she  next  commenced  work- 
ing on  a  chair  that  she  had  already  dusted. 

"  That's  a  good  girl,  Nora,"  he  said.  "  That'll  help 
her." 

He  left  then  and,  when  the  ring  of  his  spurs  had  been 
lost  in  the  lazy  afternoon,  the  girl  sat  suddenly  in  the 
chair  on  which  she  had  busied  herself  and  pressed  the 
dustcloth  hard  against  her  eyes.  She  drew  a  long, 
sharp  breath.     Then,  she  stood  erect  and  muttered, 

"Oh,  God,  has  it  come?" 

Then,  stolidly,  with  set  mouth,  she  went  on  with  her 
work,  movements  a  little  slower,  perhaps,  a  bit 
lethargic,  surely,  bungling  now  and  then.     Something 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  99 

had  gone  from  her  ...  a  hope,  a  sustaining  spark, 
a  leaven  that  had  lightened  the  drudgery. 

Upstairs  in  her  room  Ann  Lytton  lay  face  down  on 
her  bed,  hands  gripping  the  coarse  coverlet,  eyes 
pressed  shut,  breath  swift  and  irregular,  heart  racing. 
What  had  gone  from  the  girl  below  —  the  hope,  the 
spark,  the  leaven  which  makes  life  itself  palatable  — 
had  come  to  her  after  those  years  of  nightmare,  and 
Ann  was  resisting,  driving  it  back,  telling  herself  that  it 
must  not  be,  that  it  could  not  be,  not  in  the  face  of  all 
that  had  happened;  not  now,  when  ethical,  moral,  legal 
ties  bound  her  to  another !  Oh,  she  was  bound,  no 
mistaking  that;  but  it  was  not  Ann's  heart  that 
wrenched  at  the  bonds.  It  was  her  conscience,  her 
trained  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  the  traditions  that 
had  moulded  her.  No,  her  heart  was  gone,  utterly,  to 
the  man  who  crossed  the  hard,  beaten  street  of 
Yavapai,  head  down,  dejection  in  the  swing  of  his 
shoulders,  for  her  heart  knew  no  right,  no  wrong  .  .  . 
only  beauty  and  ugliness. 

Bayard,  too,  fought  his  bitter  fight.  The  urge  in 
him  was  to  take  her,  to  bear  her  away,  to  defy  the  laws 
that  men  had  made  to  hurt  her  and  to  devil  him;  but 
something  behind,  something  deep  in  him,  forbade. 
He  must  go  on,  nursing  back  to  strength  that  mock- 
ery of  manhood  who  could  lift  his  fuddled,  obscene 
head  and,  with  the  blessing  of  society,  claim  Ann  Lyt- 
ton as  his  —  her  body,  her  soul !     He  must  go  on, 


ioo  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

though  he  wanted  to  strangle  all  life  from  the  drunken 
ruin,  because  in  him  was  the  same  rigid  adherence  to 
things  that  have  been  which  held  the  woman  there  on 
her  bed,  face  down,  even  though  her  limbs  twitched 
to  race  after  him  and  her  arms  yearned  to  twine  about 
his  neck,  to  pull  herself  close  to  his  good  chest,  within 
which  the  great  heart  pumped. 

And  Nora?  Was  she  conscienceless?  Indeed,  not. 
She  had  promised  to  befriend  this  strange  woman  be- 
cause Bruce  Bayard  had  asked  it.  It  was  not  for  Ann's 
sake  she  dully  planned  diversion;  it  was  because  of  her 
love  for  the  owner  of  the  Circle  A  that  she  stifled  her 
sorrow,  her  natural  jealousy.  She  knew  that  to  re- 
fuse him,  to  follow  her  first  impulses,  would  hurt  him; 
and  that  would  react,  would  hurt  her,  for  her  devotion 
was  that  sort  which  would  go  to  any  length  to  make 
the  man  of  her  heart  happier. 

To  Ann's  ears  came  Bruce's  sharp  little  whistle,  and 
she  could  no  longer  lie  still.  She  rose,  half  staggered 
to  the  window  and  stood  holding  the  curtains  the 
least  bit  apart,  watching  him  stand  motionless  in  the 
middle  of  the  thoroughfare.  Again,  his  whistle 
sounded  and  from  a  distance  she  heard  the  high  call 
of  the  sorrel  horse  who  had  moved  along  the  strip  of 
grass  that  grew  close  beside  the  buildings,  nibbling  here 
and  there.  The  animal  approached  his  master  at  a 
swinging  trot,  holding  his  head  far  to  the  right,  nose 
high  in  the  air,  that  the  trailing  reins  might  not  dangle 
under  his  feet.     All  the  time  he  nickered  his  reassur- 


A  HEART  SPEAKS  101 

ance  and,  when  he  drew  to  a  halt  beside  his  master, 
Abe's  voice  retreated  down  into  his  long  throat  until  it 
was  only  a  guttural  murmur  of  affection. 

"  Old  Timer,  if  I  was  as  good  a  man  as  you  are 
horse,  I'd  find  a  way,"  Bruce  said  half  aloud  as  he 
gathered  the  reins. 

He  mounted  with  a  rhythmical  swing  of  shoulder  and 
limb,  and  gave  the  stallion  his  head,  trotting  out  of 
town  with  never  a  look  about. 


CHAPTER  IX 

lytton's  nemesis 

That  which  followed  was  a  hard  night  for  both 
Bayard  and  Lytton.  The  wounded  arm  was  doing 
nicely,  but  the  shattered  nervous  system  could  not  be 
repaired  so  simply.  Since  the  incident  of  the  ran- 
sacked house  and  the  pilfered  whiskey,  Lytton  had  not 
had  so  much  as  one  drink  of  stimulant  and,  because  of 
that  indulgence  of  his  appetite,  his  suffering  was  made 
manifold.  Denial  of  further  liquor  was  the  penalty 
Ned  was  forced  to  pay  for  the  abuse  of  Bayard's  trust. 
Much  of  the  time  the  sick  man  kept  himself  well  in 
hand,  was  able  to  cover  up  outward  evidence  of  the 
torture  which  he  underwent,  and  in  that  fact  rested 
some  indication  of  the  determination  that  had  once 
been  in  him.  But  this  night  the  effects  of  his  excesses 
were  tearing  at  his  will  persistently  and  sleep  would  not 
come. 

He  walked  the  floor  of  the  room  into  which  his  bed 
had  been  moved  from  the  kitchen  after  the  first  few 
days  at  the  ranch;  his  strength  gave  out  and  for  a  time 
he  lay  on  the  bed,  muttering  wildly, —  then  walked 
again  with  trembling  stride. 

Bayard  heard.  He,  too,  was  suffering;  sleep  would 
not  come  to  ease  him.  He  did  not  talk,  did  not  yearn 
for  action;  just  lay  very  quiet  and  thought  and  thought 

102 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  103 

until  his  mind  refused  to  function  further  with  coher- 
ence. After  that,  he  forced  himself  to  give  heed  to 
other  matters  for  the  sake  of  distraction  and  became 
conscious  of  the  sounds  from  the  next  room.  When 
they  increased  with  the  hours  rather  than  subsiding,  he 
got  up,  partly  dressed,  made  a  light  and  went  to  Lytton. 

Quarrelling  followed.  The  sick  man  raved  and 
cursed.  He  blamed  Bayard  for  all  his  suffering,  de- 
nounced him  as  a  meddler,  whining  and  storming  in 
turn.  He  declared  that  to  fight  against  his  weakness 
was  futile;  the  next  moment  vowed  that  he  would  re- 
turn to  town,  and  face  temptation  there  and  beat  it; 
and  within  a  breath  was  explaining  that  he  could  easily 
cure  himself,  if  he  could  only  be  allowed  to  taper  off, 
to  take  one  less  drink  each  day.  Before  it  all,  Bayard 
remained  quietly  firm  and  the  incident  ended  by  Lytton 
screaming  that  at  daylight  he  would  leave  the  ranch 
and  die  on  the  Yavapai  road  before  he  would  sumbit  to 
another  day  of  life  there. 

But  when  dawn  came  he  was  sleeping  and  the 
rancher,  after  covering  him  carefully,  retired  to  his 
room  for  two  hours'  rest  before  rousing  for  a  morn- 
ing's ride  through  the  hills. 

He  was  back  at  noon  and  found  Lytton  white  faced, 
contrite.     Together  they  prepared  a  meal. 

"  I  was  pretty  much  of  an  ass  last  night,"  Lytton  said 
after  they  had  eaten  a  few  moments  in  silence.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare  intervals  in  which  a  bearing  of  normal 
civility  struggled  through  his  despicability  and  Bayard 


104  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

looked  up  quickly  to  meet  his  indecisive  gaze,  feeling 
somehow  that  with  every  flash  of  this  strength  he  was 
rewarded  for  all  the  work  he  had  done,  the  unpleasant- 
ness he  had  undergone.  Rewarded,  though  it  only 
made  Lytton  a  stronger,  more  enduring  obstacle  be- 
tween him  and  a  consummation  of  his  love. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  the  man  confessed.  "  It  wasn't  I. 
It  was  the  booze  that's  still  in  me." 

"  I  understand,"  the  cowman  said,  with  a  nod. 

A  moment  of  silence  followed. 

"  There's  something  else,  I'm  sorry  about,"  Lytton 
continued.  "  The  other  day  I  tried  to  get  nasty  about 
a  girl,  the  girl  Nora  at  the  Manzanita  House,  didn't 
I?" 

"  Oh,  you  didn't  know  what  you  said." 

"  Well,  if  I  didn't,  that's  no  excuse."  He  was  grow- 
ing clearer,  obtaining  a  better  poise,  assuming  a  more 
decided  personality.  "  I  apologize  to  you  for  what  I 
said,  and,  if  you  think  best,  I'll  go  see  her  and  apologize 
for  the  advances  I  made  to  her." 

"  No,  no," —  with  a  quick  gesture.  "  That  wouldn't 
do  any  good;  she'll  never  know." 

"  As  you  say,  then.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I'm 
sorry;  that's  all.  I  know  how  a  fellow  feels  when 
his  girl's  name  is  dragged  into  a  brawl  that  way. 
I've  noticed  you  sort  of  dolling  up  lately  when 
you've  started  for  town," —  with  a  faint  twinkle  in  his 
eyes  and  a  smile  that  approximated  good  nature.  "  I 
know  how  it  is  with  you  fellows  who  still  have  the 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  105 

woman  bug," —  a  hint  of  bitterness.  "  I  know  how 
touchy  you'll  all  get.  You  .  .  .  you  seem  to  be  rather 
interested  in  that  Nora  girl." 

Bayard  made  no  answer.  He  was  uneasy,  appre- 
hensive. 

"  I've  heard  'em  talk  about  it  in  town.  Funny  that 
she's  the  only  woman  you've  fallen  for,  Bayard.  They 
tell  me  you  won't  look  at  another,  that  you  brought 
her  to  Yavapai  yourself  several  years  ago.  You're  so 
particular  that  you  have  to  import  one;  is  that  it?  " 

He  laughed  aloud  and  a  hint  of  nastiness  was  again 
in  the  tone.  The  other  man  did  not  answer  with  more 
than  a  quickly  passing  smile. 

"  Well,  you  fellows  have  all  got  to  have  your  whirl 
at  it,  I  suppose,"  Lytton  went  on,  the  good  nature  en- 
tirely gone.  "  You'll  never  learn  except  from  your 
own  experience.  Rush  around  with  the  girls,  have  a 
gay  time;  then,  it's  some  one  girl,  next,  it's  marriage 
and  she's  got  you," — holding  up  his  gripped  fist  for 
emphasis.      "  She's  got  you  hard  and  fast!  " 

He  stirred  in  his  chair  and  broke  another  biscuit  in 
half. 

"Believe  me,  I  know,  Bayard!  I've  been  there. 
I.  .  .  .  Hell,  I  married  a  girl  with  a  conscience," — 
drawling  the  words,  "  That's  the  kind  that  hangs  on 
when  they  get  you  .  .  .  that  good  kind!  She's  too 
damn  fine  for  human  use,  she  and  her  kind.  You 
know,"  .  .  .  laughing  bitterly — "she  started  out  to 
reform  me.     One  of  that  kind;  get  me?     A  damned 


106  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

straight-laced  Puritan!  She  snivelled  and  prayed 
and,  instead  of  helping  me,  she  just  drove  me  on 
and  on.  She's  got  me.  See?  I  can't  get  away  from 
her  and  the  only  good  thing  about  being  here  is  that 
there  are  miles  between  us  and  I  don't  hear  her  cant 
and  prating!  " 

"  Seems  to  me  that  a  woman  who  sticks  by  a  man 
when  he  goes  clean  to  hell  must  amount  to  some- 
thing," observed  Bayard,  gazing  at  him  pointedly. 

Lytton  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Maybe  ...  in  some  ways,  but  who  the  devil 
wants  that  kind  hanging  around  his  neck?  "  He 
pushed  his  plate  away  and  stared  surlily  out  through 
the  door.  Bayard  tilted  back  in  his  chair  and  looked 
the  Easterner  in  the  face  critically. 

"  Suppose  somebody  was  to  come  along  an'  tell  you 
they  was  goin'  to  take  her  off  your  hands.  What'd  you 
say  then?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  disgruntled  at  the  challenge 
in  Bayard's  query. 

"  Just  what  I  say.  You've  been  tellin'  me  what  a 
bad  mess  mixin'  with  women  is.  I'm  askin'  you  what 
you'd  do  if  somebody  tried  to  take  your  woman.  You 
say  it's  bad,  bein'  tied  up.  How  about  it,  if  some- 
body was  to  step  in  an'  relieve  you?  " 

The  other  moved  in  his  chair. 

"  That's  different,"  he  said.  "  To  want  to  be  away 
from  a  woman  until  she  got  some  common  sense,  and 
to  have  another  man  take  your  wife  are  two  different 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  107 

things.  To  have  a  man  take  your  wife  would  make 
anybody  want  to  kill,  no  matter  what  trouble  you  might 
have  had  with  her.  Breaking  up  marriages,  taking 
something  that  belongs  to  another  man,  has  nothing  to 
do  with  what  I  was  talking  about." 

"  You  don't  want  her  yourself.  You  don't  want 
anybody  else  to  have  her.     Is  that  it?  " 

"  Didn't  I  say  that  those  were  two  different — " 

"You  want  to  look  out,  Neighbor!  "  Bayard  said, 
with  a  smile,  dropping  the  forelegs  of  his  chair  to  the 
floor  and  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table.  "  You're 
talking  one  thing  and  meaning  another.  You  want  to 
keep  your  head,  if  you  want  to  keep  your  wife.  Don't 
make  out  you  want  to  let  go  when  you  really  want  to 
hang  on.  Women  are  funny  things.  They'll  stick  to 
men  like  a  burr,  they'll  take  abuse  an'  suffer  and  give 
no  sign  of  quittin',  because  they  want  love,  gentleness, 
and  they  hate  to  give  up  thinkin'  they'll  get  it  from  the 
man  they'd  planned  would  give  it  to  'em. 

"  But  some  day,  while  they're  stickin'  to  a  man  who 
don't  appreciate  'em,  they'll  see  happiness  goin'  by 
.  .  .  then,  they're  likely  to  get  it.  And  sometime 
that's  goin'  to  happen  to  your  wife;  she'll  see  happiness 
somewhere  else  an'  she'll  go  after  it;  then,  she  won't 
be  around  your  neck,  but  somebody  else'll  have  her ! 

"  Oh,  they're  queer  things  .  .  .  funny  things  !  You 
can't  tell  where  th'  man's  comin'  from  that'll  meet  'em 
an'  take  their  heart  an'  their  head.  He  may  be  right 
near  'em  all  th'  time  an'  they  never  wake  up  to  it  for 


108  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

years;  he  may  come  along  casual-like,  not  lookin'  for 
anything,  an'  see  'em  just  by  chance  an'  open  his  heart 
an'  take  'em.  .  .  . 

"  Once  I  was  in  th'  Club  in  Prescott  an'  I  heard  a 
mining  engineer  from  th'  East  sing  a  song  about  some 
man  who  lived  on  th'  desert. 

"  '  From  th'  desert  I  come  to  thee,' 
"it  went, 

"  '  On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire.  .  .  .' 

"  An'  then  he  goes  on  with  th'  finest  love  song  you 
ever  heard,  endin'  up  : 

".  .  .  '  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  th'  sun  grows  cold, 
An'  th'  stars  are  old, 
An'  th'  leaves  of  th'  Judgment  Book  unfold ! ' 

".  .  .  That's  the  sort  of  guy  that  upsets  a  woman 
who's  hungry  for  happiness.  It's  that  kind  of  love 
they  want.  They'll  stand  most  anything  a  long,  long 
time;  seems  like  some  of  'em  loved  abuse.  But  if  a 
real  hombre  ever  comes  along  .   .  .  Look  out! 

"  You  can't  tell,  Lytton.  This  thing  love  comes  like 
a  storm  sometimes.  A  man's  interest  in  a  woman  may 
be  easy  an'  not  amount  to  much  at  first.  It's  like  this 
breeze  comin'  in  here  now;  warm  an'  soft  an'  gentle,  th' 
mildest,  meekest  little  breeze  you've  ever  felt,  ain't  it? 
Well,  you  can't  tell  what  it'll  be  by  night ! 

"  I've  seen  it  just  like  this,  without  a  dust  devil  on  th' 
valley  or  a  cloud  in  th'  sky.     Then  she'd  get  puffy  an' 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  109 

dust  would  commence  to  rise  up,  an'  th'  sky  off  there 
south  an'  west  would  begin  to  look  dirty,  rusty.  Then, 
away  off,  you'd  hear  a  whisper,  a  kind  of  mutter,  grow- 
in'  louder  every  minute,  an'  you'd  see  trees  bend  down 
to  one  another  like  they  was  hidin'  their  faces  from 
somethin'  that  scared  'em.  Dust  would  come  before  it 
like  a  wall  an'  then  th'  grass  would  flatten  out  an'  look 
a  funny  white  under  that  black  and  then  .  .  .  Zwoop  ! 
She'd  be  on  you,  blowin'  an'  howlin'  an'  thunderin'  and 
lightnin'  like  hell  itself.  .  .  .  When  an  hour  before 
it'd  been  a  breeze  just  like  this." 

He  paused  an  instant. 

"  So  you  want  to  look  out  ...  if  you  want  to  keep 
her.  Some  man  on  a  '  stallion  shod  with  fire  '  may 
ride  past  an'  look  into  your  house  an'  see  her  an'  crawl 
down  an'  commence  to  sing  a  love  song  that'll  make  her 
forget  all  about  tryin'  to  straighten  you  up.  .  .  .  Some 
feller  who's  never  counted  with  her  may  wake  up  and 
go  after  her  as  strong  as  a  summer  storm. 

"  She's  young;  she's  sweet;  she's  beau  .   .   ." 

"  Say,  who  told  you  about  my  wife  ?  "  Lytton  de- 
manded, drawing  himself  up. 

Bayard  stopped  with  a  show  of  surprise.  His  ear- 
nestness had  swept  his  caution,  his  sense  of  the  neces- 
sity for  deception,  quite  away,  but  he  rallied  himself 
as  he  answered: 

"  Why,  I  judge  she  is.  She's  stickin'  by  you  like  a 
sweet  woman  would." 

"  Well,  what  if  she  is?  "  Lytton  countered,  the  sur- 


no  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

prise  in  his  face  giving  way  to  sullenness.  "  We've 
discussed  me  and  my  wife  enough  for  one  day.  You're 
inexperienced.  You  don't  know  her  kind.  You  don't 
know  women,  Bayard.  Why,  damn  their  dirty  skins, 
they—" 

"  You  drop  that!  "  Bruce  cried,  rising  and  leaning 
across  the  table.  "  You  keep  your  lying,  dirty  mouth 
shut  or  I'll  .  .  ." 

He  drew  his  great  fists  upward  slowly  as  though  they 
lifted  their  limit  in  weight.  Then  suddenly  went  limp 
and  smiled  down  at  the  face  of  the  other  man.  He 
turned  away  slowly  and  Lytton  drawled, 

"  Well,  what's  got  into  you?  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  rancher,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  I'm  .  .  .  I'm  only  worked  up  about  a  woman  my- 
self," reaching  out  a  hand  for  the  casing  of  the  door- 
way to  steady  himself.  "  I'm  only  wondering  what  th' 
best  thing  to  do  is.  .  .  .  You  said  yourself  that  .  .  . 
experience  was  th'  only  way  to  learn.  .  .  ." 

That  afternoon  Lytton  slept  deeply.  Of  this  fact 
Bayard  made  sure  when,  from  his  work  in  the  little 
blacksmith  shop,  he  saw  a  horesman  riding  toward  the 
ranch  from  a  wash  that  gouged  down  into  Manzanita 
Valley.  When  he  saw  the  man  slumbering  heavily  on 
his  bed,  worn  from  the  struggle  and  the  sleeplessness  of 
last  night,  he  closed  the  door  softly  and  returned  to 
resume  the  shoeing  of  the  pinto  horse  that  stood  dozing 
in  the  sunlight. 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  in 

"  Oh,  you  is  it,  Benny  Lynch?  "  Bayard  called,  as  the 
horseman  leaned  low  to  open  the  gate  and  rode  in. 

"  Right  again,  Bruce.     How's  things?  " 

"  Fine,  Benny.  Ain't  saw  you  in  a  long  time.  Get 
down.     Feed  your  horse?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  we've  both  et." 

The  newcomer  dismounted  and,  undoing  his  tie  rope, 
made  his  pony  fast  to  a  post.  He  was  a  short,  thick  set 
young  chap,  dressed  in  rough  clothing,  wearing  hob- 
nailed shoes.  His  clothes,  his  saddle,  the  horse  itself 
belied  the  impression  of  a  stock  man  and  his  shoes  gave 
conclusive  evidence  that  he  was  a  miner.  He  turned 
to  face  Bayard  and  pushed  his  hat  far  back  on  his 
head,  letting  the  sun  beat  down  on  his  honest,  bronzed 
face,  peculiarly  boyish,  yet  lined  as  that  of  a  man  who 
has  known  the  rough  edges  of  life. 

"  Mind  if  I  talk  to  you  a  while,  Bruce?  "  he  asked, 
serious,  preoccupied  in  his  manner. 

"  Tickled  to  death,  Benny;  your  conversation  gener- 
ally is  enlightenin'  an'  interestin'." 

This  provoked  only  a  faint  flash  of  a  smile  from  the 
other.  Bayard  kicked  a  wooden  box  along  beside  the 
building  and  both  seated  themselves  on  it.  An  interval 
of  silence,  which  the  miner  broke  by  saying  abruptly: 

"  I've  done  somethin',  Bruce,  that  I  don't  like  to  keep 
to  myself.  I'm  planning  on  doin'  somethin'  more  that 
I  want  somebody  to  know  so  that  if  anything  happens, 
folks  '11  understand. 

"  I  come  to  you," —  marking  the  ground  with  the 


ii2  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

edge  of  his  shoe  sole,  "  because  you're  th'  only  man  I 
know  in  this  country  —  an'  I  know  most  of  'em  —  I'd 
trust." 

"  Them  bouquets  are  elegant,  Benny."  Bayard 
laughed,  trying  to  relieve  the  tension  of  the  other. 
"  Go  ahead,  I  love  'em!" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Bruce.  You've  always 
played  square  with  everybody  'round  here,  not  mindm* 
a  great  deal  about  what  other  folks  done  so  long  as  they 
was  open  an'  honest  about  it.  You've  never  stole 
calves,  you've  never  been  in  trouble  with  your  neigh- 
bors — " 

"Hold  on,  Benny!  You  don't  know  how  many 
calves  I've  stole." 

The  other  smiled  and  put  aside  Bayard's  attempt  at 
levity  with  a  gesture  of  one  hand. 

"  You  understand  how  it  is,  when  a  fellar's  just  got 
to  talk?" 

"  I  understand,"  said  Bayard.  "  I've  been  in  that 
fix  myself,  recent." 

"  I  knew  you  would;  that's  why  I  come." 

He  shifted  on  the  box  and  pulled  his  hat  down  over 
his  eyes  and  said: 

"  I  tried  to  kill  a  feller  th'  other  night.  I  didn't 
make  good.  I'm  likely  to  make  another  try  some  time, 
an'  go  through  with  it." 

Bayard  waited  for  more,  with  a  queer  thrill  of 
realization. 

"You   know  this   pup   Lytton,    don't  you,    Bruce? 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  113 

Yes,  everybody  does,  th' !      I  tried  to  get  him 

th'  other  night  in  Yavapai.  I  thought  I'd  done  it  an' 
lit  out,  but  I  heard  later  I  only  nicked  his  arm.  That 
means  I've  got  to  do  it  later." 

"  It's  that  necessary  to  kill  him,  is  it,  Benny?  "  Bay- 
ard asked.  "  I  know  he  was  hit.  .  .  .  Fact  is,  I  found 
him  an'  took  him  into  th'  Hotel  an'  fixed  him  up." 

Their  gazes  met.  Benny  Lynch's  was  peculiarly  de- 
void of  anger,  steady  and  frank. 

"  That  was  like  you,  Bruce.  You'd  take  care  of  a 
sick  wolf,  I  guess.  Next  time,  though,  I'll  give  some- 
body a  job  as  a  gravedigger,  'stead  of  a  good  Samari- 
tan. .   .  . 

"  But  what  I  stopped  in  to-day  for  was  to  tell  you  th' 
whole  story,  so  you'd  know  it  all." 

"Let  her  fly,  Benny!" 

11  Prob'ly  you  know,  Bruce,  that  I  come  out  here 
from  Tennessee,  when  I  was  only  a  spindly  kid,  with  th' 
old  man  an'  my  mammy.  We  was  th'  last  of  our 
family.  They'd  feuded  our  folks  down  to  'n  old  man 
'n  old  woman  and  a  kid  —  me.  We  come  'cause  th' 
old  man  got  religion  and  moved  west  so  he  wouldn't 
have  to  kill  nobody.  I  s'pose  some  back  there  claims 
to  have  druv  him  out,  but  they  either  didn't  know  him 
or  they're  lyin'.  He'd  never  be  druv  out  by  fear, 
Bruce;  he  wasn't  that  kind. 

"  Well,  we  drifted  through  Colorado  an'  New  Mex 
an'  finally  over  here.  We  landed  out  yonder  on  th' 
Sunset  group  which  th'  old  man  located  an'  commenced 


ii4  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

to  work.  I  growed  up  there,  Bruce.  I  helped  my 
mammy  an'  my  pap  cut  down  trees  an'  pick  up  stone  to 
make  our  house.  I  built  my  mammy's  coffin  myself 
when  I  was  seventeen.  Me  an'  pap  buried  her;  me 
shovelin'  in  dirt  an'  rocks,  him  prayin'  an'  readin'  out  of 
th'  Bible." 

He  paused  to  overcome  the  shaking  of  his  voice. 

"  We  hung  on  there  an'  was  doin'  right  well  with  th' 
mine,  workin'  out  a  spell  now  an'  then,  goin'  back  an' 
developin'  as  long  as  our  grub  an'  powder  lasted.  We 
got  her  right  to  where  we  thought  she  was  ready  to 
boom,  when  hard  times  come  along,  an'  made  us  slow 
up.  I  started  out,  leavin'  th'  old  man  home,  'cause  he 
was  gettin'  so  old  he  wasn't  much  use  anywhere  an'  it 
ain't  right  that  old  folks  should  work  that  way  anyhow. 

"  I  landed  over  in  California  and  was  in  an'  'round 
th'  Funeral  Range  for  over  two  years,  writin'  to  pap 
occasional  an'  hearin'  from  him  every  few  months.  I 
didn't  make  it  very  well  an'  our  mine  just  had  to  wait  on 
my  luck,  let  alone  th'  hard  times.  We  wouldn't  sell 
out,  then,  'cause  we'd  had  to  take  little  or  nothin'  for 
th'  property.  It  worried  me;  my  old  man  was  gettin' 
old  fast,  he'd  never  had  nothin'  but  hard  knocks,  if  he 
was  ever  goin'  to  have  any  rest  an'  any  fun  it'd  have  to 
come  out  of  that  mine.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  while  I  was  away  along  come  this  here 
Eastern  outfit,  promised  to  do  all  sorts  of  things, 
formed  a  corporation,  roped  th'  old  man  in  with 
their  slick  lies,  an'  give  him  'bout  a  quarter  value  for 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  115 

what  we  had.  They  beat  him  out  of  all  he'd  ever 
earnt,  when  he  was  past  workin'  for  more !  Now, 
Bruce,  a  gang  of  skunks  that'd  do  that  to  as  fine  an  old 
man  as  my  dad  was,  ought  to  be  burnt,  hadn't  they?  " 

"  They  had.  Everybody  sure  loved  your  daddy, 
Ben." 

"  Well,  the'  was  nothin'  we  could  do.  Them  East- 
ern pups  just  set  down  an'  waited  for  us  to  get  tired  an' 
let  'em  have  a  clear  field.  So  we  moved  out,  left  our 
house  an'  all,  went  to  Prescott  an'  went  to  work,  both  of 
us,  keepin'  an  eye  on  th'  mine  to  see  they  didn't  com- 
mence to  operate  on  th'  sly.  After  a  while  I  got  what 
looked  like  a  good  thing  down  on  th'  desert  in  a  new 
town  an'  I  went  there. 

"  While  I  was  gone,  along  comes  this  here  Lytton 
an'  finishes  th'  job.  His  dad  had  owned  most  of  th' 
stock,  an'  he'd  come  here  to  start  somethin'.  He  be- 
gun with  my  pappy.  He  lied  to  him,  took  advantage 
of  an  old  man  who  was  trustful  an'  an  easy  mark. 
He  crooked  it  every  way  he  could,  he  got  everythin'  we 
had;  all  th'  work  of  my  hands," —  holding  their  honest, 
calloused  palms  out — "all  th'  hopes  of  a  good  old 
man.  It  done  him  no  good;  he  couldn't  get  enough 
backin'  to  do  business.   .   .  .   But  it  killed  my  dad." 

He  stared  vacantly  ahead  before  saying: 

"  You  know  th'  rest.  Dad  died.  That  killed  him, 
Bruce,  an'  Lytton  was  to  blame.  Ain't  that  murder? 
Ain't  it?" 

"  It's  murder,  Benny,  but  they  won't  call  it  that." 


n6  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  No,  but  what  they  call  it  don't  make  no  difference 
in  th'  right  or  th'  wrong  of  it,  does  it?  An'  it  don't 
matter  to  me.  I've  got  a  law  all  my  own,  Bruce,  an' 
it's  a  damn  sight  more  just  'n  theirs!  "  He  had  be- 
come suddenly  alert,  intent.  "  Th'  last  thing  that  my 
old  man  said  was  that  th'  wickedest  of  th'  world  had 
killed  him.  He  wouldn't  blame  no  one  man  but  I  will 
.  .  .  I  do!" 

He  moved  quickly  on  the  box,  bringing  himself  to 
face  Bayard. 

"  I  come  back  to  this  country  an'  waited.  I've  been 
thinkin'  it  over  most  two  years,  Bruce,  an'  I  don't  see 
no  way  out  but  to  fix  my  old  man's  case  myself.  Maybe 
if  things  was  different,  I'd  feel  some  other  way  about  it, 
but  this  here  Lytton  is  worse  'n  scum,  Bruce.  You 
know  an'  everybody  knows  what  he  is.  He's  a 
drunken,  lyin' !     That's  what  he  is ! 

"  I've  been  watchin'  him  close  for  weeks,  seein'  him 
drink  every  cent  of  my  dad's  money,  seein'  him  get  to 
be  less  'n  less  of  a  man. 

"  One  day  I  was  in  town.  I'd  been  drinkin'  myself 
to  keep  from  goin'  crazy  thinkin'  'bout  this  thing.  Just 
at  dusk,  just  when  th'  train  come  in  an'  everybody  was 
down  to  th'  station,  I  walked  down  th'  street  toward 
Nate's  corral  to  get  my  horse.  I  seen  him  comin'  to- 
wards me,  Bruce.  He  was  drunk,  he  could  just  about 
make  it.  He  didn't  know  me,  never  has  knowed  who  I 
was,  but  he  looks  up  at  me  an'  commences  to  cuss,  an' 
I  .  .  .  Well,  I  draws  an'  fires." 


LYTTON'S  NEMESIS  117 

He  leaned  back  against  the  building. 

"  He  dropped  an'  I  thought  things  was  squared,  so  I 
lit  out.  But  I  found  out  I  shot  too  quick  ...  or 
maybe  I  was  drunker  'n  I  thought. 

"  Where  was  he  hit,  Bruce?  " 

"  Left  forearm,  Benny  .  .  .  right  there." 

"  Hum  ...  I  thought  so.  I  had  a  notion  that  gun 
was  shootin'  to  th'  right." 

They  sat  silent  a  moment,  then  he  resumed: 

"  When  I  got  to  thinkin'  it  over  I  was  glad  I 
hadn't  killed  him.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  wasn't 
the  best  way.  That's  a  little  too  much  like  killin' 
just  'cause  you're  mad,  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  go  on  about  my  business  until  I  was  meddled 
with. 

"  I'm  livin'  at  my  home,  now,  Bruce.  I'm  back  at 
th'  Sunset,  livin'  in  th'  cabin  me  an'  my  folks  built  with 
our  hands,  workin'  alone  in  our  mine,  waitin'  for  good 
times  to  come  again.  I'm  goin'  to  stay  there  .  .  . 
right  along.  It's  goin'  to  be  my  mine  'cause  it  right- 
fully belongs  to  me,  no  matter  what  Lytton's  damn  cor- 
poration papers  may  say. 

"  Some  day,  when  he  sobers  up,  he'll  start  back  there, 
Bruce.  I'll  be  waitin'  for  him.  I  won't  harm  a  hair, 
I  won't  say  a  word  until  he  steps  on  to  them  claims. 
Then,  by  God,  I'll  shoot  him  down  like  he  was  a  coyote 
tryin'  to  get  my  chickens!  " 

Bayard  got  up  and  thoughtfully  stroked  the  hip  of 
the  pinto  horse. 


u8  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  I  guess  I  understand,  Benny,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment.    "  I'm  pretty  sure  I  do." 

"  He's  .  .  .  He's  as  low  as  a  snake's  belly,  ain't  he, 
Bruce?  " — as  if  for  reassurance. 

"  Yes,  an'  he'd  be  lower,  Benny,  if  there  was  anythin' 
lower,"  he  remarked,  grimly. 

"  He  can  shoot  though;  watch  him,  Benny!  I've 
seen  him  beat  th'  best  of  us  at  a  turkey  shootin'." 

"  That's  what  makes  me  feel  easy  about  it.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  kill  a  man  that  couldn't  shoot  as  good 
as  I  can,  anyhow." 

Benny  Lynch  departed,  still  unsmiling,  very  serious, 
and,  as  Bayard  watched  him  ride  away,  he  shook  his 
head  in  perplexity. 

"  I  wish  I  was  as  free  to  act  as  you  are,"  he  thought. 
"  But  I  ain't;  an'  your  tellin'  me  has  dug  my  hole  just 
that  much  deeper !  " 

He  looked  out  over  the  valley  a  long  moment.  It 
was  bright  under  the  afternoon  sun  but  somehow  it 
seemed,  for  him,  to  be  queerly  shadowed. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHOM   GOD    HATH    JOINED 

The  next  day  the  puzzled  cowman  rode  the  trail  to 
Yavapai  to  find  that  Ann  was  out.  He  was  told  that 
Nora  had  taken  her  riding,  so  he  waited  for  their  re- 
turn, restless,  finding  no  solace  in  the  companionship 
that  the  saloon,  the  town's  one  gathering  place  for  men, 
afforded. 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  front  of  the  general 
store,  deep  in  thought,  when  a  distant  rattle  attracted 
his  attention.  He  glanced  down  the  street  to  his  right 
and  beyond  the  limits  of  the  town  saw  a  rapidly  moving 
dust  cloud  approach.  As  it  drew  near,  the  rattling  in- 
creased, became  more  distinct,  gave  evidence  that  it 
was  a  combination  of  many  sounds,  and  Bayard  smiled 
broadly,  stirring  himself  in  anticipation. 

A  moment  more  and  the  dust  cloud  dissolved  itself 
into  a  speeding  mantle  for  a  team  of  ponies  and  a 
buckboard,  on  the  seat  of  which  sat  the  Rev.  Judson  A. 
Weyl.  The  horses  came  down  the  hard  street,  ears 
back,  straining  away  from  one  another  until  they  ran 
far  outside  the  wheel  tracks.  The  harnesses,  too  large 
for  the  beasts,  dangled  and  flopped  and  jingled,  the 
clatter  and  clank  of  the  vehicle's  progress  became  mani- 

119 


120  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

fold  as  every  bolt,  every  brace,  every  bar  and  slat  and 
spoke  vibrated,  seeming  to  shake  in  protest  at  that 
which  held,  it  to  the  rest,  and,  above  it  all,  came  the 
regular  grating  slap  of  the  tire  of  a  dished  hindwheel, 
as  in  the  course  of  its  revolutions  it  met  the  metal  brake 
shoe,  as  if  to  beat  time  for  the  ensemble. 

The  man  on  the  seat  sat  very  still,  the  reins  lax  in  his 
hands.  The  spring  under  him  sagged  with  his  weight 
and  his  long  legs  were  doubled  oddly  between  the  seat 
and  broken  dash.  He  appeared  to  give  no  heed  to 
his  team's  progress;  just  sat  and  thought  while  they 
raced  along,  the  off  horse  breaking  into  a  gallop  at  in- 
tervals to  keep  pace  with  its  long  stepping  mate. 

Across  from  where  Bayard  stood,  the  team  swung 
sharply  to  the  right,  shot  under  a  pinyon  tree,  just 
grazing  the  trunk  with  both  hubs  of  the  wheels,  and 
rounded  the  corner  of  a  low  little  house,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly when  out  of  sight;  and  the  rancher  laughed  aloud 
in  the  sudden  silence  that  followed. 

He  went  across  the  thoroughfare,  followed  the  tracks 
of  the  buckboard  and  came  upon  the  tall,  thin,  dust  cov- 
ered driver,  who  had  descended,  unfastened  the  tugs 
and  was  turning  his  wild-eyed,  malevolent-nosed  team 
of  half  broken  horses  into  a  corral  which  was  shaded  by 
a  tall  pine  tree.     He  looked  up  as  Bayard  approached. 

"  Hel-/o,  Bruce  !  "  he  cried,  flinging  the  harness  up  on 
a  post,  and  extending  a  hearty  hand.  "  I  haven't  seen 
you  in  an  age  !  " 

"  How  are  you,  Parson?  "  the  other  responded,  grip- 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  121 

ping  the  offered  hand  and  smiling  good  naturedly  into 
the  alert  gaze  from  the  black  eyes.  "  I  ain't  saw  you 
for  a  long  time,  either,  but  every  now  and  then,  when 
I'm  ridin'  along  after  my  old  cows,  I  hear  a  most  awful 
noise  comin'  from  miles  away,  an'  I  say  to  myself, 
'  There  goes  th'  parson  tryin'  to  beat  th'  devil  to  an- 
other soul! '  " 

The  other  laughed  and  cast  a  half  shameful  look  at 
his  buckboard,  which  Bayard  was  inspecting  critically. 
It  was  held  together  with  rope  and  wire;  bolts  hung 
loosely  in  their  sockets;  not  a  tight  spoke  remained  in 
the  wheels;  the  pole  was  warped  and  cracked  and  the 
hair  stuffing  of  the  seat  cushion  was  held  there  only  by 
its  tendency  to  mat  and  become  compact,  for  the  cover 
was  three-quarters  gone. 

"  It's  deplorable,  ain't  it,"  Bayard  chuckled,  "  how 
th'  Lord  outfits  his  servants  in  this  here  country?  " 

The  clergyman  laughed. 

"That's  a  chariot  of  fire,  Bruce!"  he  cried. 
"  Don't  you  understand?  " 

"  It'd  be  on  fire,  if  I  had  it,  all  right !  It  ain't  fit  for 
nothin'  else.  Why,  Parson,  I  should  think  th'  devil'd 
get  you  sure  some  of  these  nights  when  you're  riskin' 
your  neck  in  this  here  contraption  an'  trustin'  to  your 
Employer  to  restrainin'  th'  wickedness  in  that  pair  of 
unlovely  males  you  call  horses !  " 

"  Well,  maybe  I  should  get  a  new  rig,"  the  other 
admitted,  still  laughing.  "  But  somehow,  I'm  so  busy 
looking  after  His  strays  in  this  country  that  I  don't 


122  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

get  time  to  think  about  my  own  comfort.  Maybe 
that's  the  best  way.  If  I  took  time  to  worry  about  ma- 
terial discomforts,  I  suppose  I'd  feel  dirty  and  worn 
and  hot  now,  for  I've  had  a  long,  long  drive." 

"  A  drink'd  do  you  a  lot  of  good,  Parson,"  said 
Bruce,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  I  don't  mind 
drinkin'  with  you,  even  if  you  are  a  preacher." 

"  And  because  I'm  a  member  of  the  clergy  I  have  to 
drink  with  you  whether  I  like  it  or  not,  Bruce !  " —  with 
a  crack  of  his  big  hand  on  Bayard's  shoulder.  "  A 
bottle  of  pop  would  taste  fine  about  now,  son !  " 

"  Well,  you  wait  here  an'  I'll  get  that  brand  of  sham 
liquor,"  said  Bruce,  turning  to  start  for  the  saloon. 

"  Hold  on,  Bruce.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feel- 
ings, but  I  don't  feel  that  I  want  to  let  you  buy  any- 
thing for  me  out  of  that  place.  Get  me  some  at  the 
drug  store." 

The  younger  man  hesitated. 

"  Well,  I  got  a  few  convictions  myself,  Parson. 
Maybe  there  ain't  much  to  be  said  for  s'loon  men,  but 
your  friend  who  runs  that  pill  foundry  sells  booze  to  In- 
dians, I  suspect,  which  ain't  right  an'  which  no  self- 
respectin'  s'loon  man  would  do." 

"  Son,  all  life  is  a  compromise,"  laughed  Weyl. 
"  You  go  buy  what  you  like  to  drink;  I'll  buy  mine. 
How's  that?" 

"  That's  about  as  fair  as  a  proposition  can  be,  I 
guess." 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  seated  in  the  shade  of 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  123 

the  pine  tree,  backs  against  the  corral  where  the  sweat- 
crusted  horses  munched  alfalfa.  Bayard  drank  from 
a  foaming  bottle  of  beer,  Weyl  from  a  pop  container. 
Both  had  removed  their  hats,  and  their  physical  com- 
fort approached  the  absolute. 

The  cowman,  though,  was  not  wholly  at  ease.  He 
listened  attentively  to  the  rector's  discourse  on  the 
condition  of  his  parish,  but  all  the  while  he  seemed 
to  be  bothered  by  some  idea  that  lurked  deep 
in  his  mind.  During  a  pause,  in  which  the  brown 
pop  gurgled  its  way  through  Weyl's  thin  lips,  Bruce 
squinted  through  the  beer  that  remained  in  his  bottle 
and  said, 

"  Somethin's  been  botherin'  me  th'  last  day  or  so, 
Parson,  an'  I  sure  was  glad  when  I  seen  you  comin'  up 
in  this  here  .  .  .  chariot  of  fire." 

"  What  is  it,  Bruce?" 

"  Well,  here's  th'  case.  If  a  jasper  comes  to  you  an' 
tells  you  somethin'  in  confidence,  are  you  bound  to  keep 
your  mouth  shut  even  if  somebody's  likely  to  get  hurt 
by  this  here  first  party's  plan?  I  know  your  outfit 
don't  have  no  confession  — 'tain't  confession  I  want. 
.  .  .  It's  advice  .  .  .  what'd  you  do  if  you  was  in  that 
fix?" 

The  other  straightened  his  long  limbs  and  smiled 
gravely. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  I  would  do,  Bruce;  but,  if  it's  a 
matter  of  consequence,  I  can't  advise  you  what  to  do. 

"  That's  one  of  the  hardest  things  I  have  to  meet  — 


124  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

honest  men,  such  as  you,  coming  to  me  with  honest 
questions.  I'm  only  a  man  like  you  are;  I  have  the 
same  problems,  the  same  perplexities;  it's  necessary  for 
me  to  meet  them  in  the  way  you  do.  Because  I  button 
my  collar  behind  is  of  no  significance.  Because  I'm 
trying  to  help  men  to  know  their  own  souls  gives  me  no 
superiority  over  them.  That's  as  far  as  I  can  go  — 
helping  men  to  know  themselves.  Once  that  is  ac- 
complished, I  can't  guide  their  actions  or  influence  their 
decisions.  So  far  as  I  can  determine,  that's  all  God 
wants  of  us.  He  wants  us  to  see  ourselves  in  the  light 
of  truth;  then,  be  honest  with  ourselves. 

"  In  your  particular  matter,  I  couldn't  stand  by  and 
see  a  man  walk  into  danger  unaware  and  yet  it  would 
mean  a  lot  for  me  to  betray  another  man's  confidence. 
I  suppose  I'd  do  as  I  do  in  so  many  matters,  and  that  is 
to  compromise.  I  would  consider  it  my  duty  to  keep 
a  confidence,  if  it  was  made  in  the  spirit  of  honesty  and, 
just  as  surely,  it  is  my  duty  to  save  men  from  harm. 
My  word  of  honor  means  much  .  .  .  yes.  But  my 
brother's  safety,  if  I  am  his  keeper,  is  of  as  much  con- 
sequence, surely.  If  I  couldn't  compromise  —  if  tak- 
ing a  middle  course  wouldn't  be  practical  —  then  I 
think  I  would  choose  the  cause  which  I  considered  most 
just  and  throw  all  my  influence  and  energy  into  it. 

"  That's  what  I  would  do,  my  friend.  Perhaps,  it 
is  not  what  you  would  do,  but  so  long  as  you  are  honest 
in  your  perplexity  then,  basically,  whatever  action  you 
decide  on,  must  be  right." 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  125 

Bayard  drank  again,  slowly. 

"  IVe  never  been  inside  your  church,"  he  said  at 
length.  "  I'm  like  a  lot  of  men.  I  don't  care  much 
about  churches.  Do  you  preach  like  that  on  Sunday  ?  " 
—  turning  his  face  to  Weyl. 

The  other  laughed  heartily. 

"  I  don't  preach,  Bruce  !  I  just  talk  and  try  to  think 
out  loud  and  make  my  people  think.  Yes.  ...  I  try 
to  be  before  my  people  just  as  I  am  before  you,  or  any 
other  friend." 

"  Some  day,  then,  I'm  likely  to  come  along  and  ask 
to  throw  in  with  your  outfit  .  .  .  your  church.  I'll  bet 
that  after  I've  let  a  little  more  hell  out  of  my  system,  I 
could  get  to  be  a  top  deacon  in  no  time  ...  in  your 
church!" 

The  clergyman  smiled  and  rested  his  hand  affection- 
ately on  Bayard's  knee. 

"  We're  always  glad  to  have  stoppers  come  along," 
he  replied.  "  Every  now  and  then  one  drops  in  to  see 
what  we're  like.  Some  have  stayed  and  gone  to  work 
with  us  and  turned  out  to  be  good  hands." 

Bruce  made  no  response  and  the  other  was  not  the 
sort  to  urge.  So  they  sat  a  time  in  companionable 
silence  until  the  younger  man  asked, 

"  Had  you  come  far  to-day?  " 

"  Wolf  Basin.  I  went  over  there  yesterday  and 
married  old  Tom  Nelson's  girl  to  a  newcomer  over 
there." 

Bayard  looked  at  him  keenly.     He  had  wanted  to 


126  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

bring  up  another  question,  but  had  been  unable  to  de- 
side  upon  a  device  for  the  manipulation  of  the  con- 
versation.    This  was  a  fortunate  opening. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  yarn  they  was  tellin'  'bout  old 
Newt  Hagadorn,  when  they  'lected  him  justice  of  th' 
peace  in  Bumble  Bee  ?  At  his  first  weddin'  Newt  got 
tangled  up  in  his  rope  an'  says, 

"  '  Who  me  'nd  God  has  j'ined  together  let  no  man 
put  apart!  '  " 

Weyl  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  heartily. 
Bruce  shook  with  mirth  but  watched  his  friend's  face, 
and,  when  the  clergyman  had  sobered  again,  he  asked, 

"  How  about  this  who-God-hath-joined-together  idea 
anyhow,  Parson?     Does  it  always  work  out?  " 

"  Not  always,  Bruce," —  with  a  shake  of  his  head  — 
"  You  should  know  that." 

"  Well,  when  it  don't,  what've  you  parsons  got  to 
say  about  it?  You've  hogtied  'em  in  th'  name  of  all 
that's  holy;  what  if  it  don't  turn  out  right?  They're 
married  in  th'  name  of  God,  ain't  they?  " 

Weyl  drained  the  last  of  his  pop  and  tossed  the  bottle 
away. 

11 1  used  to  think  they  were  .  .  .  they  all  were, 
Bruce.  That  was  when  I  was  as  young  in  years,  as  I 
try  to  be  young  in  heart  now.  But  the  more  couples  I 
marry,  the  stronger  is  my  conviction  that  God  isn't  a 
party  to  all  those  transactions,  not  by  a  long  sight! 

"  If  my  bishop  were  to  hear  me  say  that,  he'd  have 
me  up  for  a  lecture,  because  he  is  bothered  with  a  lot  of 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  127 

traditions  and  precedent,  but  many  men  are  calling  on 
Him  to  bless  the  unions  of  young  men  and  women 
when  He  only  refuses  to  answer.  Men  don't  know; 
somehow  they  can't  see  that  God  turns  his  face  from 
marriage  at  times;  they  keep  on  thinking  that  all  that  is 
necessary  is  to  have  some  ordained  minister  warn  so- 
ciety to  keep  hands  off,  that  it  is  the  Father's  busi- 
ness .  .  .  when  it  is  not,  when  love,  when  God,  isn't 
there." 

"  How  are  young  goin'  to  tell  when  He's  missin' 
from  those  present?  " 

Weyl  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  The  individuals,  the  parties  concerned,  are  the 
only  ones  who  know  that." 

"  When  they  do  know,  when  they  don't  give  up  even 
then?     What  are  you  goin'  to  do  'bout  that?  " 

The  other  man  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  There  are  many  things  that  you  and  I  —  that  so- 
ciety— 'must  do,  Bruce,  my  son.  It's  up  to  us  to 
change  our  attitude,  to  change  our  way  of  looking  at 
human  relations,  to  pull  off  the  bandages  that  are  blind- 
ing our  eyes  and  see  the  true  God.  Other  things  be- 
sides marriage  demand  that  unerring  sight,  too.   .  .   ." 

"  But  what  I'm  gettin'  at,"  broke  in  the  other,  pulling 
him  back  to  the  question  of  matrimony,  "  is,  what  are 
you  goin'  to  do,  when  you  know  God  ain't  ridin'  with  a 
couple,  when  it's  a  sin  for  'em  to  be  together,  but  when 
th'  man  holds  to  his  wife  like  I'd  hold  to  a  cow  with  my 
brand  on  her,  an'  when  th'  woman  —  maybe  —  hangs 


128  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

to  him  'cause  she  thinks  th'  Lord  has  had  somethin'  to 
do  with  it." 

"  In  that  case,  if  she  thinks  of  the  Father's  connec- 
tion as  an  affair  of  the  past,  she  must  know  it  is  no 
longer  holy;  someone  should  open  her  eyes,  someone 
who  is  unselfish,  who  has  a  perspective,  who  is  willing 
to  be  patient  and  help  her,  to  suffer  with  her,  if  need 
be." 

"  You  wouldn't  recommend  that  a  party  who  sort  of 
hankered  to  wring  th'  husband's  neck  an'  who  thought 
the  wife  was  'bout  th'  finest  thing  God  ever  put  breath 
into,  start  out  to  tackle  th'  job,  would  you?  " 

Weyl  rubbed  his  chin  in  thoughtful  consideration; 
then  replied  slowly: 

"  No,  it  is  our  duty  to  give  the  blind  sight;  we  can 
only  do  that  by  knowing  that  our  motives  are  holy 
when  we  undertake  the  job.  That  is  the  first  and  only 
matter  to  consider.  Beyond  motives,  we  cannot  judge 
men  and  women.  .  .  . 

"  My  bishop  would  drop  dead  before  me,  Bruce,  if 
he  heard  that." 

The  other  was  silent  a  moment;  then  he  said,  slowly, 

"  I  wish  some  of  us  miser'ble  sinners  could  be  so 
open  minded  as  some  of  you  God  fearin',  hell-preachin' 
church  goers !  " 

After  a  long  interval,  in  which  their  discussion 
rambled  over  a  score  of  topics,  Bayard  left. 

"  If  you  ever  get  near  th'  Circle  A  in  that  chariot  of 
fire,  I  hope  she  goes  up  in  smoke,  so  you'll  have  to  stay 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  129 

a  while  !  "  he  said.      "  An'  I  hope  M's.  Weyl's  with  you 
when  it  happens." 

"  Your  wishes  for  bad  luck  are  only  offset  by  the 
hope  that  sometime  we  can  come  and  spend  some  days 
with  you,  my  friend!  "  laughed  the  minister  as  they 
shook  hands. 

Ann  and  Nora  had  returned  when  Bruce  reached  the 
Manzanita  House  and  in  the  former's  room  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  after  he  had  reported  on  Lytton's  slow 
gaining  of  strength,  Bayard  said  to  her, 

"  Do  you  believe  what  I  tell  you,  ma'am?  " 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  she  did  not  get  his 
meaning,  but  saw  he  was  in  earnest  and  replied, 

"  I've  never  doubted  a  thing  you've  told  me." 

11  Then  I  want  you  to  believe  one  more  thing  I'm 
goin'  to  tell  you,  an'  I  don't  want  you  to  ask  me  any 
questions  about  it,  cause  I'm  so  hogtied  —  that  is,  situ- 
ated, ma'am  —  that  I  can't  answer  any.  I  just  want 
to  tell  you  never  to  let  your  husband  go  back  to  th' 
Sunset  mine." 

"  Never  to  let  him?  Why,  when  he's  himself  again 
that's  where  his  work  will  be  — " 

"  I  can't  help  that,  ma'am.  All  I  can  say  is,  not  to 
let  him.  It  means  more  to  you  than  anybody  can 
think  who  don't  know  th'  ways  of  men  in  a  country 
like  this.  Just  remember  that,  an'  believe  that,  will 
you?" 

"  You  want  him  to  give  up  everything?  " 


130  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  All  I  want,  ma'am,  is  for  you  to  say  you'll  never  let 
him  go  there." 

Finally,  she  unwillingly,  uncomprehendingly,  agreed 
to  do  all  she  could  to  prevent  Ned's  return  to  the  min- 
ing camp. 

u  Then,  that's  all,  for  now,"  Bayard  announced, 
dryly,  and  went  from  the  room. 

Their  hands  had  not  touched;  there  had  been  no 
word,  no  glance  suggestive  of  the  emotional  outburst 
which  charactized  their  last  meeting,  and,  when  he  was 
gone,  the  woman,  with  all  her  conscience,  felt  a  keen 
disappointment. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    STORY   OF   ABE 

True  to  her  promise  to  Bruce,  Nora  had  taken  Ann 
in  hand.  She  proposed  that  they  ride  together  the  day 
after  the  man  had  suggested  such  a  kindness  and  the 
step  was  met  most  enthusiastically  by  the  eastern 
woman,  for  it  promised  her  relief  from  the  anxiety 
provoked  by  mere  waiting. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  this,  so  you'll  have  to  tell  me 
everything,  Nora,"  she  said  as,  in  a  new  riding  skirt, 
she  settled  herself  in  the  saddle  and  felt  her  horse  move 
under  her. 

"  I  don't  know  much  either,"  the  girl  replied,  fussing 
with  her  blouse  front.  "  I  was  learnt  to  ride  by  a  fine 
teacher,  but  I  was  so  busy  learnin'  'bout  him  that  I 
didn't  pay  much  attention  to  what  he  said." 

She  looked  up  shyly,  yet  her  mouth  was  set  in  de- 
termination and  she  forced  herself  to  meet  Ann  Lyt- 
ton's  gaze,  to  will  to  be  kind  to  her  .  .  .  because 
Bruce  had  asked  it.  Her  thinly  veiled  declaration  of 
interest  in  Bayard  was  not  made  without  guile.  It  was 
a  timid  expression  of  her  claim  to  a  free  field.  Per- 
haps, beneath  all  her  sense  of  having  failed  in  the  big 
ambition  of  her  life,  was  a  hope.     This  eastern  woman 

131 


i32  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

was  married.  Nora  knew  Bruce,  knew  his  close  adher- 
ence to  his  own  code  of  morals,  and  she  believed  that 
something  possibly  might  come  to  pass,  some  circum- 
stance might  arise  which  would  take  Ann  out  of  their 
lives  before  the  control  that  Bayard  had  built  about  his 
natural  impulses  could  be  broken  down.  That  would 
leave  her  alone  with  the  rancher,  to  worship  him  from 
a  distance,  to  find  a  great  solace  in  the  fact  that  though 
he  refused  to  be  her  lover  no  other  woman  was  more 
intimately  in  his  life.  That  hope  prompted  her  mild 
insinuation  of  a  right  of  priority. 

Ann  caught  something  of  the  subtle  enmity  which 
Nora  could  not  wholly  cover  by  her  outward  kindness. 
She  had  heard  Nora's  and  Bruce's  names  associated 
about  the  hotel,  and  when,  on  speaking  of  Bayard,  she 
saw  her  companion  become  more  shy,  felt  her  uncon- 
scious hostility  increase  perceptibly,  she  deduced  the 
reason.  With  her  conclusion  came  a  feeling  of  resent- 
ment and  with  a  decided  shock  Ann  realized  that  she 
was  prompted  to  be  somewhat  jealous  of  this  daughter 
of  the  west.  Indignant  at  herself  for  what  she  be- 
lieved was  a  mean  weakness  she  resolved  to  refrain 
from  talking  of  Bruce  to  Nora  for  the  sake  of  the  girl's 
peace  of  mind,  although  she  could  not  help  wondering 
just  how  far  the  affair  between  the  waitress  and  her  own 
extraordinary  lover  had  gone. 

Keeping  off  the  subject  was  difficult,  for  the  two  were 
so  far  apart,  their  viewpoints  so  widely  removed,  that 
they  had  little  or  no  matter  on  which  to  converse,  aside 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  133 

from  Yavapai  and  its  people;  and  of  the  community 
Bayard  was  the  outstanding  feature  for  them  both. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here,  Nora  ?  "  Ann  asked. 

"  Three  years;  ever  since  Bruce  got  me  my  job." 

There  you  were ! 

"  Do  you  like  it  here?  " 

"Well,  folks  have  showed  me  a  good  time;  Bruce 
especially." 

Again  the  talk  was  stalled. 

"  Were  you  born  out  here?  " 

"  Yes;  that's  why  I  ain't  got  much  education  .  .  . 
except  what  Bruce  gave  me." 

Once  more;  everything  on  which  they  could  converse 
went  directly  back  to  Bayard  and,  finally,  Ann  aban- 
doned the  attempt  to  avoid  the  embarrassing  subject 
and  plunged  resolutely  into  it,  hoping  to  dissipate  the 
intangible  barrier  that  was  between  them. 

"  Tell  me  about  Bruce,"  she  said.  "  He  brought 
you  here,  he  educated  you ;  he  must  have  been  very  kind 
to  you.  He  must  be  unusual," — looking  at  the  other 
girl  to  detect,  if  she  could,  any  misgiving  sign. 

Nora  stared  straight  ahead. 

"  He's  been  good  to  me,"  she  said  slowly.  "  He's 
good  to  everybody,  as  I  guess  you  know.  The'  ain't 
much  to  know  about  him.  His  name  ain't  Bayard;  no- 
body knows  what  it  is.  He  was  picked  up  out  of  a  rail- 
road wreck  a  long  time  ago  an'  old  Tim  Bayard  took 
him  an'  raised  him.  They  never  got  track  of  his  folks ; 
th'  wreck  burnt. 


134  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Tim  died  four  years  ago  an'  Bruce  's  runnin'  th' 
outfit.  He's  got  a  fine  ranch!  " — voice  rising  in  un- 
conscious enthusiasm.  "  He  ain't  rich,  but  he'll  be  well 
fixed  some  day.  He  don't  care  much  about  gettin'  rich; 
says  it  takes  too  much  time.  He'd  rather  read  an'  fuss 
with  horses  an'  things." 

"  Isn't  it  unusual  to  find  a  man  out  here  or  anywhere 
who  feels  like  that?  Are  there  more  like  him  in  this 
country,  Nora?  " 

"  God,  no !  " —  with  a  roughness  that  startled  her 
companion.  "  None  of  'em  are  like  him.  He  was 
born  different;  you  can  tell  that  by  lookin'  at  him.  He 
ain't  their  kind,  but  they  all  like  him,  you  bet!  He's 
smarter  'n  they  are.  Feller  from  th'  East,  a  perfesser, 
come  out  here  with  th'  consumption  once  when  Tim  was 
alive  an'  stayed  there;  he  taught  Bruce  lots.  My!  " — 
with  a  sigh  of  mingled  pride  and  hopelessness  — "  he 
sure  knows  a  lot.  Just  as  if  he  was  raised  an'  educated 
in  th'  East,  only  with  none  of  th'  frills  you  folks  get." 

Then  she  was  silent  and  refused  to  respond  readily 
to  Ann's  advances,  but  rode  looking  at  her  pony's  ears, 
her  lips  in  a  straight  line. 

That  was  the  beginning.  Each  day  the  two  women 
rode  together,  Nora  teaching  Ann  all  she  knew  of 
horses  and  showing  her,  in  her  own  way,  the  mighty 
beauty  of  that  country. 

After  the  first  time,  they  said  little  about  Bruce;  with 
a  better  acquaintance,  more  matters  could  be  talked 
about  and  for  that  each  was  thankful. 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  135 

Removed  as  they  were  from  one  another  by  birth 
and  training,  each  of  these  two  women,  strangers  until 
within  a  few  days,  found  that  a  great  part  of  her  life 
was  identical  with  that  of  the  other.  Yet,  at  the  very 
point  where  they  came  closest  to  one  another,  diver- 
gence began  again.  Their  common  interest  was  their 
feeling  for  Bruce  Bayard,  and  their  greatest  difference 
was  the  manner  in  which  each  reacted  to  the  emotion. 
The  waitress,  more  elemental,  more  direct  and  child- 
like, wanted  the  man  with  an  unequivocal  desire.  She 
would  have  gone  through  any  ordeal,  subjected  herself 
to  any  ignominious  circumstances,  for  his  pleasure. 
But  she  did  not  want  him  as  a  possession,  as  something 
which  belonged  to  her;  she  wanted  him  for  a  master, 
longed  with  every  fiber  of  her  sensory  system  to  belong 
to  him.  She  would  have  slaved  for  him,  drudged  for 
him,  received  any  brutal  outburst  he  might  have  turned 
on  her,  gratefully,  just  so  long  as  she  knew  she  was  his. 

Ann  Lytton,  complicated  in  her  manner  of  thought 
by  the  life  she  had  lived,  hampered  by  conventions,  by 
preconceived  standards  of  conduct,  would  not  let  her- 
self be  whiffed  about  so  wholly  by  emotion.  It  was  as 
though  she  braced  backward  and  moved  reluctantly 
before  a  high  wind,  urged  to  flight,  resisting  the  tugging 
by  all  the  strength  of  her  limbs,  yet  losing  control  with 
every  reluctant  step.  For  her,  also,  Bruce  Bayard  was 
the  most  wonderful  human  being  that  she  had  ever  ex- 
perienced. His  roughness,  his  little  uncouth  touches, 
did  not  jar  on  her  highly  sensitized  appreciation  of 


i36  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

proprieties.  With  another  individual  of  a  weaker  or 
less  cleanly  type,  the  slips  in  grammar,  even,  would 
have  been  annoying;  but  his  virility  and  his  unsmirched 
manner  of  thought,  his  robust,  clean  body,  overbal- 
anced those  shortcomings  and,  deep  in  her  heart,  she 
idolized  him.  And  yet  she  would  not  go  further, 
would  not  willingly  let  that  emotion  come  into 
the  light  where  it  could  thrive  and  grow  with 
the  days;  she  tried  to  repress  it,  keeping  it  from 
its  natural  sources  of  nourishment  and  thereby  its 
growth  —  for  it  would  grow  in  spite  of  her  —  became 
a  disrupting  progress.  One  part  of  her,  the  real,  nat- 
ural, unhampered  Ann,  told  her  that  for  his  embraces, 
for  his  companionship,  she  would  sell  her  chances  of 
eternity;  she  had  no  desire  to  own  him,  no  urge  to 
subject  herself  to  him;  the  status  she  wanted  was  equal 
footing,  a  shoulder-to-shoulder  relationship  that  would 
be  a  joyous  thing.  And  yet  that  other  part,  that  Puri- 
tanical Ann,  resisted,  fought  down  this  urge,  told  her 
that  she  must  not,  could  not  want  Bayard  because,  at 
the  Circle  A  ranch,  waited  another  man  who,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law,  of  other  people,  of  her  God,  even, 
was  the  one  who  owned  her  loyalty  and  devotion  even 
though  he  could  not  claim  her  love.  Strange  the  ways 
of  women  who  will  guard  so  zealously  their  bodies  but 
who  will  struggle  against  every  natural,  holy  influence 
to  give  so  recklessly,  so  uselessly,  so  hopelessly,  of  their 
souls ! 

Nora  was  the  quicker  to   analyze  her  companion- 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  137 

rival.  Her  subjection  to  Bayard's  every  whim  was  so 
complete  that,  when  he  told  her  to  be  kind  to  this  other 
woman,  she  obeyed  with  all  the  heart  she  could  muster, 
in  spite  of  what  she  read  in  his  face  and  in  Ann's  blue 
eyes  when  that  latter-day  part  of  the  eastern  woman 
dreamed  through  them.  She  went  about  her  task 
doggedly,  methodically,  forcing  herself  to  nurse  the 
bond  between  these  two,  thinking  not  of  the  future, 
of  what  it  meant  to  her  own  relationships  with  the 
cattleman,  of  nothing  but  the  fact  that  Bayard,  the 
lover  of  her  dreams,  had  willed  it.  The  girl  was 
a  religious  fanatic;  her  religion  was  that  of  service 
to  Bayard  and  she  tortured  herself  in  the  name  of  that 
belief. 

And  in  that  she  was  only  reflecting  the  spirit  of  the 
man  she  loved.  Back  at  the  ranch,  Bayard  underwent 
the  same  ordeal  of  repressing  his  natural  desires,  only, 
in  his  case,  he  could  not  at  all  times  control  his  revulsion 
for  Lytton,  while  Nora  kept  her  jealousy  well  in  hand. 
As  at  first,  he  centered  his  whole  activity  about  bringing 
Lytton  back  to  some  semblance  of  manhood.  He 
nursed  him,  humored  him  as  much  as  he  could, 
watched  him  constantly  to  see  that  the  man  did  not  slip 
away,  go  to  Yavapai  and  there,  in  an  hour,  undo  all 
that  Bruce  had  accomplished. 

Lytton  regained  strength  slowly.  His  nervous  sys- 
tem, racked  and  torn  by  his  relentless  dissipation,  would 
not  allow  his  body  to  mend  rapidly.  He  had  been  on 
the  verge  of  acute  alcoholism;  another  day  or  two  of 


138  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

continued  debauchery  would  have  left  him  a  bundle 
of  uncontrollable  nerves,  and  remedying  the  condition 
was  no  one  day  task.  A  fortnight  passed  before 
Lytton  was  able  to  sit  up  through  the  entire  day  and, 
even  then,  a  walk  of  a  hundred  yards  would  bring  him 
back  pale  and  panting. 

Meager  as  his  daily  improvement  was,  nevertheless 
it  was  progress,  and  the  rehabilitation  of  his  strength 
meant  only  one  thing  for  Bruce  Bayard.  It  meant  that 
Lytton,  within  a  short  time,  must  know  of  Ann's  pres- 
ence, must  go  to  her,  and  that,  thereafter,  Bayard 
would  be  excluded  from  the  woman's  presence,  for  he 
still  felt  that  to  see  them  together  would  strip  him  of 
self-restraint,  would  make  him  a  primitive  man,  battling 
blindly  for  the  woman  he  desired. 

As  the  days  passed  and  Bruce  saw  Lytton  steadying, 
gaining  physical  and  mental  force,  his  composure,  al- 
ready disturbed,  was  badly  shaken.  He  tried  to  tell 
himself  that  what  must  be,  must  be;  that  brooding 
would  help  matters  not  at  all,  that  he  must  keep  up  his 
courage  and  surrender  gracefully  for  the  sake  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  keeping  her  peace  of  mind  sacred. 
At  other  times,  he  went  over  the  doctrine  of  unimpeach- 
able motive,  of  individual  duty  that  the  clergyman  had 
expounded,  but  some  inherent  reluctance  to  adopt  the 
new,  some  latent  conservatism  in  him  rebelled  at 
thought  of  man's  crossing  man  where  a  woman  was  at 
stake.  He  did  not  know,  but  he  formed  the  third  being 
who  was  held  to  a  rigid  course  by  conscience !     Of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  139 

four  entangled  by  this  situation,  Ned  Lytton  alone  was 
without  scruples,  without  a  code  of  ethics. 

Between  the  two  men  was  the  same  attitude  that  had 
prevailed  from  the  first.  Bayard  kept  Lytton  in  re- 
straint by  his  physical  and  mental  dominance.  He 
gave  up  attempting  to  persuade,  attempting  to  appeal  to 
the  spark  of  manhood  left  in  his  patient,  after  that  day 
when  Lytton  stole  and  drank  the  whiskey.  He  relied 
entirely  on  his  superiority  and  frankly  kept  his  charge 
in  subjection.  When  strength  came  back  to  the  de- 
bauched body,  Bayard  told  himself,  he  could  begin  to 
plead,  to  argue  for  his  results;  not  before. 

For  the  greater  portion  of  the  time  Lytton  was 
morose,  quarrelsome.  Now  and  again  came  flashes  of 
a  better  nature,  but  invariably  they  were  followed  by 
spiteful,  reasonless  outbursts  and  remonstrances.  To 
these  Bayard  listened  with  tolerance,  accepting  the 
other  man's  curses  and  insults  as  he  would  the  reason- 
less pet  of  a  child,  and  each  time  that  Ned  showed  a  de- 
sire to  act  as  a  normal  human  being,  to  interest  himself 
in  life  or  the  things  about  him,  the  big  rancher  was  on 
the  alert  to  give  information,  to  encourage  thought  that 
would  take  the  sick  man's  mind  from  his  own  difficul- 
ties. 

One  factor  of  the  life  at  the  ranch  evidently  worried 
Lytton,  but  of  it  he  did  not  speak.  This  was  the  man- 
ner with  which  Bayard  kept  one  room,  the  room  in 
which  he  slept,  to  himself.  The  door  through  which 
he  entered  never  stood  open,  Lytton  was  never  asked 


i46  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

to  cross  the  sill.  Bayard  never  referred  to  it  in  con- 
versation. A  secret  chamber,  it  was,  rendered  mys- 
terious by  the  fact  that  its  occupant  took  pains  that  it 
should  never  be  mentioned.  Lytton  instinctively  re- 
spected this  attitude  and  never  asked  a  question  touch- 
ing on  it,  though  at  times  his  annoyance  at  being  so 
completely  excluded  from  a  portion  of  the  house  was 
evident. 

Once  Lytton,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  ash  tree, 
watched  Bayard  riding  in  from  the  valley  on  his  sorrel 
horse.  The  animal  nickered  as  his  master  let  him 
head  for  the  well  beside  the  house. 

"  He  likes  to  drink  here,"  Bruce  laughed,  dropping 
off  and  wiping  the  dust  from  his  face.  "  He  thinks 
that  because  this  well's  beside  the  house,  it's  better  than 
drinkin'  out  yonder  in  th'  corral.  Kind  of  a  stuck  up 
old  pup,  ain't  you,  Abe?"  slapping  the  horse's  belly 
until  he  lifted  one  hind  foot  high  in  a  meaningless 
threat  of  destruction.  "  Put  down  that  foot  you  four- 
flusher!  "  setting  his  boot  over  the  hoof  and  forcing  it 
back  to  earth. 

He  pulled  off  the  saddle,  dropped  it,  drew  the  bridle 
over  the  sleek,  finely  proportioned  ears  and  let  the  big 
beast  shake  himself  mightily,  roll  in  the  dooryard  dust 
and  drink  again. 

"  Where'd  he  come  from?"  Lytton  asked,  after 
staring  at  the  splendid  lines  of  the  animal  for  several 
minutes. 

"  Oh,  Abe  run  hog-wild  out  on  th'  valley,"  Bayard 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  141 

answered,  with  a  laugh,  waving  his  hand  out  toward  the 
expanse  of  country,  now  a  fine  lilac  tinted  with  green 
under  the  brilliant  sunlight,  purple  and  uncertain  away 
out  where  the  heat  waves  distorted  the  horizon.  "  He 
was  a  hell  bender  of  a  horse  for  a  while.   .   .  . 

"  You  see,  he  come  from  some  stock  that  wasn't  in- 
tended to  get  out.  Probably,  an  army  stallion  got 
away  from  some  officer  at  Whipple  Barracks  and  fell 
in  with  a  range  mare.  That  kind  of  a  sire  accounts 
for  his  weight  and  that  head  and  neck,  an'  his  mammy 
must  have  been  a  leather-lunged,  steel-legged  little  cuss 
— 'cause  he's  that,  too.  He's  got  the  lines  of  a  fine 
bred  horse,  with  the  insides  of  a  first  class  bronc. 

"  He  attracted  attention  when  he  was  a  two  year  old 
and  some  of  th'  boys  tried  to  get  him,  but  couldn't. 
They  kept  after  him  until  he  was  four  and  then  sort  of 
give  up.  He  was  a  good  horse  gone  bad.  He  drove 
off  gentle  mares  and  caused  all  kind  of  trouble  and 
would  'a  been  shot,  if  he  hadn't  been  so  well  put  up. 
He  was  no  use  at  all  that  way;  he  was  a  peace  disturber 
an'  he  was  fast  an'  wise.  That's  a  bad  combination  to 
beat  in  a  country  like  ours," —  with  another  gesture  to- 
ward the  valley. 

"  But  his  fifth  summer  was  th'  dry  year  —  no  rain  — 
creeks  dryin'  up  —  hell  on  horses;  Tim  and  I  went  to 
get  him. 

"  There  was  just  three  waterin'  places  left  on  that 
range.  One  on  Lynch  Creek,  one  under  Bald  Moun- 
tain, other  way  over  by  Sugar  Block.     We  fenced  the 


i42  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

first  two  in  tight  so  nothin'  but  birds  could  get  to  'em, 
built  a  corral  around  th'  third,  that  was  clean  across 
th'  valley  there," — indicating  as  he  talked — "  an'  left 
th'  gate  open. 

"  Well,  first  day  all  th'  horses  on  th'  valley  collected 
over  other  side  by  those  fenced  holes,  wonderin'  what 
was  up," —  he  scratched  his  head  and  grinned  at  the 
memory,  "  an'  Tim  and  I  set  out  by  Sugar  Block  in  th' 
sun  waitin'.  .  .  .  Lord,  it  was  hot,  an'  there  wasn't  no 
shade  to  be  had.  That  night,  some  of  the  old  mares 
come  trailin'  across  th'  valley  leadin'  their  colts,  whin- 
nerin'  when  they  smelled  water.  We  was  sleepin' 
nearby  and  could  kind  'a'  see  'em  by  th'  starlight. 
They  nosed  around  th'  corral  and  finally  went  in  and 
drunk.  Next  day,  th'  others  was  hangin'  in  sight,  sus- 
picious, an'  too  thirsty  to  graze.  All  of  'em  stood 
head  toward  th'  water,  lookin'  an'  lookin'  hours  at  a 
time.  'Long  toward  night  in  they  come,  one  at  a  time, 
finally,  with  a  rush;  unbranded  mares,  a  few  big  young 
colts,  all  drove  to  it  by  thirst. 

"  Old  Abe,  though,  he  stood  up  on  th'  far  rim  of  a 
wash  an'  watched  an'  hollered  an'  trotted  back  an' 
forth.  He  wouldn't  come;  not  much!  We  had  a 
glass  an'  could  see  him  switch  his  tail  an'  run  back  a 
little  ways  with  his  ears  flat  down.  Then,  he'd  stop 
an'  turn  his  head  an'  stick  up  his  ears  stiff  as  starch; 
then  he'd  turn  'round  an'  walk  towards  us,  slow  for  a 
few  steps.  Never  got  within  pistol  shot,  though.  All 
next  day  he  hung  there  alone,  watchin'  us,  dryin'  up  to 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  143 

his  bones  under  that  sun.  Antelope  come  up,  a  dozen 
in  a  bunch,  an'  hung  near  him  all  afternoon.  Next 
mornin'  come  th'  sun  an'  there  was  Mr.  Abe,  standin' 
with  his  neck  straight  in  th'  air,  ears  peekin'  at  our 
camp  to  see  if  we  was  there  yet.  Gosh,  how  hot  it 
got  that  day !  "  He  rose,  drew  a  bucket  of  water  from 
the  well  and  lifting  it  in  his  big  hands,  drank  deeply 
from  the  rim  at  the  memory. 

"  I  thought  it  was  goin'  to  burn  th'  valley  up. 

"  '  This'll  bring  him,'  says  Tim. 

"  '  Not  him,'  I  says !      '  He'll  die  first.' 

"  '  He's  too  damn  good  a  sport  to  die,'  Tim  said. 
'  He'll  quit  when  he's  licked.' 

"An'  he  did." 

The  man  walked  to  the  sorrel,  who  stood  still  idly 
switching  at  flies.  He  threw  his  arm  about  the  great 
head  and  the  horse,  swaying  forward,  pushed  against 
his  body  with  playful  affection  until  Bayard  was  shoved 
from  his  footing. 

"You  did,  didn't  you,  Abe?  He  didn't  wait  for 
dark.  It  was  still  light  an'  after  waitin'  all  that  time 
on  us,  you'd  thought  he'd  stuck  it  out  until  we  couldn't 
see  so  well.  But  it  seemed  as  if  Tim  was  right,  as  if 
he  quit  when  he  saw  he  was  licked,  like  a  good  sport. 
He  just  disappeared  into  that  wash  an'  come  up  on  th' 
near  side  an'  walked  slow  toward  us,  stoppin'  now  an' 
then,  sidesteppin'  like  he  was  goin'  to  turn  back,  but 
always  comin'  on  an'  on.  He  made  a  big  circle  toward 
the  corral  an',  when  he  got  close,  'bout  fifty  yards  off, 


i44  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

he  started  to  trot  an'  he  went  through  that  gate  on  a 
high  lope,  comin'  to  stop  plumb  in  th'  middle  of  that 
hole,  spatterin'  water  an'  mud  all  over  himself  an'  half 
th'  country. 

"  'T  wasn't  much  then.  We  made  it  to  th'  gate  on 
our  horses.  He  could  see  us,  but  we  knew  after  bein' 
dried  out  that  long  he'd  just  naturally  have  to  fill  up. 
When  I  reached  for  th'  gate,  he  made  one  move  like  he 
tried  to  get  away  but  'twas  too  late.  We  had  him 
trapped.  He  was  licked.  He  looked  us  over  an'  then 
went  to  lay  down  in  th'  water." 

He  stroked  the  long,  fine  neck  slowly. 

"  After  that  't  was  easy.  I  knew  he  was  more  or 
less  man  even  if  he  was  horse.  We  put  th'  first  rope 
on  him  he'd  ever  felt  next  mornin'.  Of  course,  't  was 
kind  of  a  tournament  for  a  while,  but,  finally  we  both 
tied  on  an'  started  home  with  him  between  us.  He 
played  around  some,  but  finally  let  up;  not  licked,  not 
discouraged,  understand,  but  just  as  if  he  admitted  we 
had  one  on  him  an'  he  was  goin'  to  see  our  game 
through  for  curiosity. 

"  We  put  him  in  th'  round  corral  an'  left  him  there 
for  a  straight  month,  foolin'  with  him  every  day,  of 
course.  Then  I  got  up  an'  rode  him.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it. 

"  He  was  my  best  friend  th'  minute  I  tied  on  to  him; 
he  is  yet.  We  never  had  no  trouble.  I  treat  him 
square  an'  white.  He's  never  tried  to  pitch  with  me, 
never  has  quit  runnin'  until  I  told  him  to,  an',  for  my 


THE  STORY  OF  ABE  145 

part,  I've  never  abused  him  or  asked  him  to  go  th' 
limit." 

He  walked  out  to  the  corral  then,  horse  following  at 
his  heels  like  a  dog,  nosing  the  big  brown  hand  that 
swung  against  Bayard's  thigh. 

"  That's  always  been  a  lesson  to  me,"  Bruce  said,  on 
his  return  as  he  prepared  to  wash  in  the  tin  basin  beside 
the  wall.  "  Runnin'  hog-wild  never  got  him  nothin' 
but  enemies,  never  did  him  no  good.  He  found  out 
that  it  didn't  pay,  that  men  was  too  much  for  him,  an' 
he's  a  lot  happier,  lot  better  off,  lot  more  comfortable 
than  he  was  when  he  was  hellin'  round  with  no  restraint 
on  him.     He  knows  that.     I  can  tell. 

"  So," —  as  he  lathered  his  hands  with  soap  — "  I've 
always  figured  that  when  us  men  got  runnin'  too  loose 
we  was  makin'  mistakes,  losin'  a  lot.  It  may  seem  a 
little  hard  on  us  to  stop  doin'  what  we've  had  a  good 
time  doin'  for  a  while,  but,  when  you  stop  to  consider 
all  sides,  I  guess  there's  about  as  much  pleasure  for  us 
when  we  think  of  others  as  there  is  when  we're  so 
selfish  that  we  don't  see  nothin'  but  our  own  desires." 

Lytton  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  tossed  his 
chin  scornfully. 

"  Don't  you  ever  get  tired  playing  the  hero?"  he 
taunted.  "  That's  what  you  are,  you  know.  You're 
the  hero;  I'm  the  villain.  You're  the  one  who's  always 
saying  the  things  heroes  say  in  books.  You're  the  one 
who's  always  right,  while  I'm  always  wrong. 

"  You  know,   Bayard,  when  a  man  gets  to  be  so 


146  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

damn  heroic  it's  time  he  watched  himself.  I've  never 
seen  one  yet  whose  foot  didn't  slip  sooner  or  later. 
The  higher  you  fly,  understand,  the  harder  you  fall. 
You're  pretty  high;  mighty  superior  to  most  of  us. 
Lookout!  " 

The  other  regarded  him  a  moment,  cheeks  flushing 
slowly  under  the  taunt. 

"  Lytton,  if  I  was  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  would  you 
consider  it?  " 

"  Fire  away!  The  devil  alone  knows  what  /  could 
do  for  anybody." 

"  Just  this.  Be  careful  of  me,  please.  I  might, 
sometime,  sort  of  choke  you  or  something!  " 

He  turned  back  to  the  wash  basin  at  that  and  soused 
his  face  and  head  in  the  cold  water. 

A  moment  before  he  had  looked  through  that  red 
film  which  makes  killers  of  gentle  men.  He  had  mas- 
tered himself  at  the  cost  of  a  mighty  effort,  but  in  the 
wake  of  his  rage  came  a  fresh  loathing  for  that  other 
man  .  .  .  the  man  he  was  grooming,  rehabilitating, 
only  to  blot  out  the  possibility  of  having  a  bit  of 
Ann's  life  for  himself.  He  was  putting  his  best  heart, 
his  best  mind,  his  best  strength  into  that  discouraging 
task,  hoping  against  hope  that  he  might  lift  Lytton 
to  a  level  where  Ann  would  find  something  to  attract 
and  hold  her,  something  to  safeguard  her  against  the 
true  lover  who  might  ride  past  on  his  fire-shod  stallion. 
And  it  was  bitter  work. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   RUNAWAY 

During  these  days  Bayard  saw  Ann  regularly.  He 
would  be  up  before  dawn  that  he  might  do  the  neces- 
sary riding  after  his  cattle  and  reach  Yavapai  before 
sunset,  because,  somehow,  he  felt  that  to  see  another 
man's  wife  by  daylight  was  less  of  a  transgression  than 
though  he  went  under  cover  of  darkness.  Perhaps  it 
was  also  because  he  feared  that  in  spite  of  his  caution 
to  keep  Ann's  identity  secret,  in  spite  of  the  com- 
munity's accepted  first  conclusion,  Yavapai  might  learn 
that  she  was  wife  and  not  sister,  and  wished  to  fortify 
her  against  the  sting  of  comment  that  might  be  passed 
should  the  revelation  occur  and  his  affection  for  her 
be  guessed. 

He  was  punctilious  about  his  appearance.  Invari- 
ably he  changed  shirts  and  overalls  before  riding  to  the 
town,  and  he  had  reserved  one  gorgeous  green  silk 
scarf  for  those  occasions.  He  never  appeared  before 
the  woman  unshaven  and,  since  his  one  confessional 
outburst,  he  was  as  careful  of  his  speech,  his  manner,  as 
he  was  of  his  person. 

Ann  had  taken  to  Arizona  whole  heartedly  and 
dressed  suitably  for  the  new  life  she  was  leading  — 
divided  skirts,  simple  blouses,  a  brimmed  hat  that  would 

147 


i48  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

shade  her  eyes.  Her  cheeks  bronzed  from  sun  and 
wind,  the  blood  pumped  closer  to  her  skin  from  the 
outdoor  life  and  her  eyes,  above  the  latent  pain  in 
their  depths,  took  on  the  brilliance  of  health.  Her 
new  manner  of  dress,  the  better  color  that  came  to  her 
face  and  accentuated  her  beauty,  the  growing  indica- 
tions of  vitality  about  her,  served  only  to  fan  the  flame 
in  Bayard's  heart,  for  as  it  made  her  more  attractive 
to  him,  it  also  made  her  more  understandable,  brought 
her  nearer  to  his  virile  kind. 

"  I've  come  to  tell  you  about  him,  ma'am,"  he  al- 
ways said,  by  way  of  opening  their  conversations. 

Not  once  again  did  he  call  her  by  her  given  name, 
but,  though  he  was  always  formal,  stiffly  polite,  never 
allowing  an  intimation  of  personal  regard  to  pass  his 
lips,  he  could  not  hide  the  adoration  in  his  eyes.  It 
came  through  his  dogged  resolution  to  hold  it  back, 
for  he  could  not  keep  his  gaze  from  following  her 
every  move,  every  bend  of  her  neck,  change  of  her  lips, 
lift  of  her  arms  and  shoulders  or  free,  rhythmic  move- 
ment as  she  walked. 

Ann  saw  and  read  that  light  and,  though  something 
in  her  kept  demanding  that  she  blind  herself  to  its  sig- 
nificance, that,  if  necessary  to  accomplish  this,  she  re- 
fuse to  give  Bayard  gaze  for  gaze,  she  could  no  more 
have  hidden  the  fact  of  that  evidence  of  his  love  from 
her  understanding  than  she  could  have  stopped  the 
quickening  of  her  pulse  when  he  approached. 

Nora  saw  that  light,  too.     She  saw  the  trouble  with 


Ann    had    taken   to  Arizona  whole-heartedly   and    dressed 
suitably  for  the  new  life  she  was  leading. 


THE  RUNAWAY  149 

it  in  his  face;  and  the  realization  of  what  it  all  meant 
was  like  a  stab  in  the  breast.  He  had  ceased  entirely 
to  laugh  and  banter  with  her  as  he  had  done  before 
Ann  Lytton  came  to  Yavapai;  in  other  days  he  had  al- 
ways eaten  at  the  Manzanita  House  when  in  town, 
and  his  humorous  chiding  had  been  one  of  the  things  in 
which  the  girl  found  simple  delight.  Now,  he  came 
and  went  without  eating;  his  words  to  her  were  few, 
almost  without  exception  they  were  of  the  other  woman 
and,  always,  his  speech  was  sober. 

Mrs.  Weyl  returned  to  Yavapai  and  with  her  coming 
Ann  found  another  outlet  for  the  trouble  that  she 
fought  vainly  to  repress.  To  Bayard  she  had  given 
the  fullest  detail  of  her  confidence;  through  Nora  she 
had  found  a  method  of  forgetting  for  short  successions 
of  hours.  But  Bayard  was  a  man,  and  between  them 
was  the  peculiar  barrier  which  his  love  had  erected; 
Nora  was  not  the  type  to  which  Ann  would  go  for  com- 
fort and  there,  anyhow,  was  again  a  dividing  circum- 
stance which  could  not  wholly  be  overcome.  It  was 
the  emotional  receptiveness  of  an  understanding  woman 
that  Ann  Lytton  needed;  she  wanted  to  be  mothered,  to 
be  pitied,  to  be  assured  in  the  terms  of  her  kind  and  all 
that  she  found  in  the  clergyman's  wife. 

"  Why,  the  poor  child!  "  that  good  woman  had  cried 
when,  on  her  arrival  home,  her  husband  had  told  her  of 
Ann's  presence.  "  And  you  say  her  brother  has  disap- 
peared? " 

"  From  Yavapai,  yes;  I  suspect,  though,  that  Bruce 


150  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Bayard  knows  something  of  where  he  is  and  I  guess  the 
girl  could  find  him.  Something  peculiar  about  it, 
though.  Bruce  is  worried.  And  I  think  he's  quite 
desperately  in  love." 

Forthwith,  his  wife  dropped  all  other  duties  and 
went  to  Ann.  In  fifteen  minutes  the  novelty  of  ac- 
quaintance had  worn  off  and  in  an  hour  Ann  was 
crying  in  the  motherly  arms,  while  she  poured  her 
whole  wretched  story  into  the  sympathetic  ears;  that  is, 
all  of  the  story  up  to  the  day  when  Bruce  Bayard  told 
her  why  she  must  not  help  him  nurse  Ned  Lytton  back 
to  physical  and  moral  health. 

To  the  accompaniment  of  many  there-there's  and 
dear-child's  and  caresses  Ann's  outburst  of  grief  spent 
itself  and  the  distress  that  had  reflected  on  the  counte- 
nance of  the  older  woman  gave  way  to  an  expression  of 
sweet  understanding. 

"  And  because  of  everything,  we  —  Mr.  Bayard  and 
I  —  had  thought  it  best  to  let  people  go  on  thinking 
that  I  am  .  .  .  Ned's  sister.  .  .  .  You  see,  it  might 
be  embarrassing  to  have  them  talk." 

Her  look  wavered  and  the  face  of  Mrs.  Weyl 
showed  a  sudden  comprehension.  For  a  breath  she 
sat  gazing  at  the  profile  of  the  girl  beside  her.  Then 
she  leaned  forward,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek  and  said, 

"  I  know,  daughter,  I  know." 

That  meeting  led  to  daily  visits  and  soon  Bruce  and 
Ann  were  invited  to   eat  their  evening  meal  at  the 


THE  RUNAWAY  151 

Weyls'.  It  was  a  peculiar  event,  with  the  self-con- 
sciousness of  Ann  and  the  rancher  putting  an  effective 
damper  on  the  conversation.  Afterward,  when  the 
men  sat  outside  in  the  twilight,  Bruce  smoking  a  ciga- 
rette and  the  minister  drawing  temperately  on  an  aged 
cob  pipe,  the  cowman  broke  a  lengthy  silence  with : 

"  I'm  glad  she  told  your  wife  .  .  .  about  bein'  his 
wife.  .  .  .  It  relieves  me.  A  thing  like  that  is  con- 
siderable of  a  secret  to  pack  around." 

The  other  blew  ashes  gently  from  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe,  exposing  the  ruby  coal  before  he  spoke. 

"  If  you  ever  think  there's  anything  any  man  can  do 
to  help  —  from  listening  on  up  —  just  let  me  try,  will 
you,  my  boy?  " 

"  If  any  man  could  help,  you'd  be  the  one,"  was  the 
answer.  "  But  th'  other  day  we  sifted  this  thing  down; 
it's  up  to  th'  man  himself  to  be  sure  that  he's  ridin'  th' 
open  trail  an'  ain't  got  anything  to  cover  up. 

"  But  lately  so  much  has  happened  that  I  don't  feel 
free,  even  when  I'm  out  on  the  valley.  I  feel,  some- 
how, like  I  was  under  fence  .  .  .   fenced  in." 

Nora  and  Ann  continued  their  rides  together  and 
one  afternoon  they  had  gone  to  the  westward  in  the 
direction  of  Bayard's  ranch.  It  was  at  Nora's  sug- 
gestion, after  they  had  agreed  that  Bruce  might  be  on 
his  way  to  Yavapai  that  day.  In  the  distance,  they  had 
sighted  a  rider  and  after  watching  him  a  time  saw  him 
wave  his  hat. 


152  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  That's  him/'  the  waitress  said.  "  Here's  some 
fine  grass;  let's  give  th'  horses  a  bite  an'  let  'em  cool  till 
he  comes  up." 

They  waited  there  then,  slouched  in  their  saddles. 
Ann  wanted  to  talk  about  something  other  than  Bruce, 
because,  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  that  old  chill  was 
bound  to  assert  itself  in  Nora. 

"  This  is  a  better  horse  than  the  one  I've  had,"  she 
commented,  stroking  the  pony's  withers  and  hoping  to 
start  talk  that  would  make  the  interval  of  waiting  one 
of  ease  between  them. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Nora,  "  but  he's  got  a  bad  eye.  I 
was  afraid  of  him  when  we  first  started  out,  but  he 
seems  to  be  all  right.  Bruce  had  one  that  looked  like 
him  once  an'  he  tried  to  pitch  me  off." 

"  Hold  up  your  head,  pony,"  Ann  said,  "  You'll  get 
us  into  trouble  — " 

Her  horse,  searching  grass,  had  thrust  his  head  under 
the  pony  Nora  rode  and,  as  Ann  pulled  on  the  reins, 
he  responded  with  the  alacrity  of  a  nervous  animal, 
striking  the  stirrup  as  he  threw  up  his  head.  He 
crouched,  backed,  half  turned  and  Nora's  spur  caught 
under  the  headstall  of  his  bridle.  It  was  a  bridle  with- 
out a  throat-latch,  and,  at  the  first  jerk,  it  slipped  over 
his  ears,  the  bit  slid  from  his  mouth  and  clattered  on 
the  rocks.  Ann's  first  laugh  changed  to  a  cry  of  fright. 
Nora,  with  a  jab  of  her  spurs,  started  to  send  her  pony 
close  against  the  other,  reaching  out  at  the  same  time 
with  her  arms  to  encircle  his  head.     But  she  was  too 


THE  RUNAWAY  153 

late,  too  slow.  The  freed  horse  trotted  off  a  few  steps, 
throwing  his  nose  to  one  side  in  curiosity,  felt  no  re- 
straint, broke  into  a  lope,  struck  back  along  the  road 
toward  town  and,  surprised,  frightened  by  his  unex- 
pected liberty,  increased  his  pace  to  a  panicky  run. 

Behind,  Nora  pulled  her  horse  up  sharply,  knowing 
that  to  pursue  would  only  set  the  runaway  at  a  greater 
speed. 

"  Hang  on !  "  she  shouted,  in  a  voice  shrill  with  ex- 
citement.     "  Hang  on !  " 

Ann  was  hanging  on  with  all  her  strength.  She  was 
riding,  too,  with  all  the  skill  at  her  command;  for 
greater  safety  she  clung  to  the  horn  with  both  hands. 
She  tried  to  speak  to  the  horse  under  her,  thinking  that 
she  might  quiet  him  by  words,  but  the  rush  of  wind 
whipped  the  feeble  sounds  from  her  lips  and  their 
remnants  were  drowned  in  the  staccatoed  drumming  of 
hoofs  as  the  crazed  beast,  breathing  in  excited  gulps, 
breasted  the  hill  that  led  them  back  toward  town, 
gathering  speed  with  every  leap  that  carried  them  for- 
ward. 

Nora,  seeing  that  a  runaway  was  inevitable,  cried  to 
her  mount  and  the  pony,  keyed  to  flight,  sped  along 
behind  the  other,  losing  with  every  length  traveled. 
Tears  of  fright  spilled  from  the  girl's  eyes,  chilling  her 
cheeks.  What  might  happen  was  incalculable,  she 
knew. 

Then  new  sounds,  above  the  beat  of  her  horse's 
hoofs,  above  the  wind  in  her  ears;  the  sweeping,  meas- 


154  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

ured,  rolling  batter  of  other  hoofs,  and  Nora  turned 
her  head  to  see  Bruce  Bayard,  mouth  set,  eyes  glowing, 
brim  of  his  hat  plastered  back  against  the  crown  by 
his  rush,  urge  his  big  sorrel  horse  toward  her.  He 
hung  low  over  the  fork  of  his  saddle,  clear  of  his  seat, 
tense,  yet  lithe,  and  responding  to  every  undulation  of 
the  beast  that  carried  him. 

From  a  distance  Bayard  had  seen.  He  thought  at 
first  that  Ann  had  started  her  pony  purposely,  but  when 
the  animal  raced  away  toward  town  at  such  frantic 
speed,  when  Ann's  hat  was  whipped  from  her  head, 
when  he  heard  a  distant,  faint  scream,  he  knew  that  no 
prompting  of  the  woman's  had  been  behind  the  break. 
He  stretched  himself  low  over  Abe's  neck  and  cried 
aloud,  hung  in  his  spurs  and  fanned  the  great  beast's 
flanks  with  his  quirt.  Never  before  had  the  sorrel  been 
called  upon  so  sharply;  never  before  had  he  felt  such  a 
prodding  of  rowels  or  lashing  of  rawhide.  Ears  back, 
nose  out,  limbs  flexing  and  straightening,  spurning  the 
roadway  with  his  drumming  hoofs,  the  great  animal 
started  in  pursuit. 

For  a  mile  the  road  held  up  hill,  following  closely  the 
rim  of  a  rise  that  hung  high  above  the  valley  to  the 
right.  As  it  rose,  the  wagon  track  bent  to  the  left, 
with  the  trend  of  the  rim.  At  the  crest  of  the  hill 
Yavapai  would  be  visible;  from  there  the  road,  too, 
could  be  seen,  swinging  in  a  big  arc  toward  the  town, 
which  might  be  reached  by  travel  over  a  straight  line; 
but  that  way  would  lead  down  an  abrupt  drop  and  over 


THE  RUNAWAY  155 

footing  that  was  atrocious,  strewn  with  malpais  boul- 
ders and  rutted  by  many  washes. 

It  was  to  overtake  Ann's  runaway  before  he  topped 
this  rise  that  Bayard  whipped  his  sorrel.  He  knew 
what  might  happen  there.  The  animal  that  bore  the 
woman  was  crazed  beyond  control,  beyond  his  own 
horse  judgment.  He  was  running,  and  his  sole  ob- 
jective was  home.  Now,  he  was  taking  the  quickest 
possible  route  and  the  moment  he  struck  the  higher 
country  he  might  leave  the  road  and  go  straight  for 
Yavapai,  plunging  down  the  sharp  point  that  stood 
three  hundred  feet  above  the  valley,  and  making  over 
the  rocks  with  the  abandon  of  a  beast  that  is  bred  and 
reared  among  them.  Well  enough  to  run  over  rough 
ground  at  most  times,  but  in  this  insane  going  the  horse 
would  be  heedless  of  his  instinctive  caution,  sacrificing 
everything  for  speed.  He  might  fall  before  he 
reached  the  valley  floor,  he  might  lose  his  footing  at 
any  yard  between  there  and  town,  and  a  fall  in  that 
ragged,  volcanic  rock,  would  be  a  terrible  thing  for  a 
woman. 

Abe  responded  superbly  to  the  urging.  He  passed 
Nora's  pony  in  a  shower  of  gravel.  His  belly  seemed 
to  hang  unbelievably  close  to  the  ground,  his  stride 
lengthened,  his  tail  stood  rippling  behind  him,  his  feet 
smote  the  road  as  though  spitefully  and  he  stretched  his 
white  patched  nose  far  out  as  if  he  would  force  his 
tendons  to  a  performance  beyond  their  actual  power. 
But  he  could  not  make  it;  the  task  of  overcoming  that 


156  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

handicap  in  that  distance  was  beyond  the  ability  of 
blood  and  bone. 

As  he  went  on,  leap  by  leap,  and  saw  that  his  gaining 
was  not  bringing  him  beside  Ann  in  time,  Bayard  com- 
menced to  call  aloud  to  the  horse  under  him,  and  his 
eyes  grew  wide  with  dread. 

His  fears  were  well  grounded.  As  though  he  had 
planned  it  long  before,  as  if  the  whole  route  of  his  flight 
had  been  preconceived,  the  black  pony  swung  to  the 
right  as  he  came  up  on  level  ground.  He  cut  across 
the  intervening  flat  and,  ears  back,  hindquarters 
scrooching  far  under  his  body  as  he  changed  his  gait  for 
the  steep  drop,  he  disappeared  over  the  rim. 

Bayard  cried  aloud,  the  sorrel  swung  unbidden  on 
the  trail  of  the  runaway  and  twenty  yards  behind 
stuck  his  fore  feet  stiffly  out  for  the  first  leap 
down  the  rock-littered  point.  Unspeakable  footing, 
that.  Malpais  lumps,  ranging  from  the  size  of  an  egg 
to  some  that  weighed  tons,  were  everywhere.  Be- 
tween them  sparse  grass  grew,  but  in  no  place  was 
there  bare  ground  the  size  of  a  horse's  hoof,  and  for 
every  four  lengths  they  traveled  forward,  they  dropped 
toward  the  valley  by  one ! 

Ears  up  now,  the  sorrel  watched  his  footing  anx- 
iously, but  the  black  pony,  eyes  rolling,  put  his  whole 
vigor  into  the  running,  urged  on  to  even  greater  efforts 
by  the  nearness  of  the  pursuing  animal.  The  fortune 
that  goes  with  flying  bronchos  alone  kept  his  feet  be- 
neath his  body. 


THE  RUNAWAY  157 

Bayard's  mouth  was  open  and  each  time  the  shock 
of  being  thrown  forward  and  down  racked  his  body,  the 
breath  was  beaten  from  him.  He  looked  ahead, 
watching  the  footing  at  the  bottom,  leaving  that  over 
which  they  then  passed  to  his  horse,  for  the  most  critical 
moment  in  a  run  such  as  they  took  is  when  the  horses 
strike  level  ground.  Then  they  are  apt  to  go  end  over 
end,  tripped  by  the  impetus  that  their  rush  downhill 
gives  them.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  overtake  and 
turn  Ann's  pony  with  safety  before  they  reached  the 
bottom.  He  feared  that  to  come  abreast  of  him 
might  drive  the  frantic  beast  to  that  last  effort  which 
would  result  in  an  immediate  fall.  Every  instant  was 
precious;  every  leap  filled  with  potential  disaster. 

The  stallion  left  off  pretense  at  clean  running.  He 
slipped  and  floundered  and  scrambled  down  the  point; 
at  times  almost  sitting  on  his  haunches  to  keep  the  rush 
of  his  descent  within  safety  and  retain  control  of  his 
balance.  Slowly  he  drew  closer  to  the  other  animal, 
crowding  a  bit  to  the  left  to  be  nearer,  grunting  with 
his  straining,  dividing  his  attention  between  preserving 
caution  and  making  progress. 

Ann's  hair  came  down,  tumbling  about  her  shoulders, 
then  down  her  back,  and  finally  brushed  the  sweated 
coat  of  her  runaway  with  its  ends.  The  horrible 
sensation  of  falling,  of  pitching  forward  helplessly, 
swept  through  her  vitals  each  time  the  animal  under  her 
leaped  outward  and  down.  It  grew  to  an  acute  physi- 
cal pain  by  its  constant  repetition.     Her  face  was  very 


158  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

white,  but  almost  expressionless.  Only  her  eyes  be- 
trayed the  fear  in  her  by  their  darkness,  by  their 
strained  lids.  Her  mouth  was  fixed  in  determination 
to  play  the  game  to  its  end.  She  heard  the  other  horse 
coming;  Bayard's  voice  had  called  out  to  her.  That 
was  all  she  knew.  This  flight  was  horrible,  tragic; 
with  each  move  of  her  horse  she  feared  that  it  must  be 
the  last,  that  she  would  be  flung  into  those  rocks,  yet, 
somehow,  she  felt  that  it  would  end  well.  For  Bayard 
was  near  her. 

Not  so  with  the  man.  As  they  slid  down  halfway  to 
the  valley,  he  cried  aloud  to  his  horse  again,  for  he  saw 
that  along  the  base  of  the  drop,  right  at  the  place  to- 
ward which  they  were  floundering,  a  recent  storm  had 
gouged  a  fresh  wash.  Deep  and  narrow  and  rock 
filled,  and,  if  her  horse,  unable  to  stop,  unable  to  turn 
with  any  degree  of  safety  whatever  went  into  that  .  .  . 

Behind  them,  loosened  rocks  clattered  along,  the  dust 
rose,  their  trail  was  marked  by  black  blotches  where  the 
scant  red  soil  had  been  turned  up.  The  sorrel's  nose 
reached  the  black's  reeling  rump;  it  stretched  to  his 
flank,  to  the  saddle,  to  his  shoulder.  .  .  .  And  Ann 
turned  her  head  quickly,  appealingly. 

"  Careful  .  .  .  Abe!     Once  more  .  .  .  easy  .  .  ." 

Bayard  dropped  his  reins;  he  leaned  to  the  left. 
He  scratched  with  his  spurs.  His  horse  leaped  power- 
fully twice,  thrice,  caution  abandoned,  risking  every- 
thing now.     The  man  swung  down,  his  arm  encircled 


THE  RUNAWAY  159 

Ann's  waist,  he  brought  the  pressure  of  his  right  knee 
to  bear  against  the  saddle,  and  lifted  her  clear,  a  warm, 
limp  weight  against  his  body. 

Staggering  under  the  added  burden,  the  stallion 
gathered  himself  for  a  try  at  the  wash  which  he  must 
either  clear  or  in  which  he  and  those  he  carried  were 
to  fall  in  a  tangle.  Bayard,  lifting  the  woman  high, 
balanced  in  his  saddle  and  gathered  her  closer. 

The  black  floundered  in  uncertain  jumps,  throwing 
his  head  down  in  an  effort  to  check  his  progress,  was 
overcome  by  his  own  momentum  and  leaped  recklessly. 
He  misjudged,  fell  short  and  with  a  grunt  and  a  thud 
and  a  threshing  went  down  into  the  bald  rocks  that 
floods  had  piled  in  the  gully. 

Abe  did  not  try  to  stop,  to  overcome  the  added  im- 
petus that  this  new  weight  gave  him.  He  lowered  his 
head  in  a  show  of  determination,  took  the  last  three 
strides  with  a  swift  scramble  and  leaped. 

Bayard  thought  that  they  were  in  the  air  for  seconds. 
They  seemed  to  float  over  that  wash.  Seemed  to  hang 
suspended  a  deliberate  instant.  Then  they  came  down 
with  a  sob  wrenched  from  the  horse  as  his  forefeet 
clawed  the  far  footing  for  a  retaining  hold  and  his 
hindquarters,  the  bank  crumbling  under  them,  slipped 
down  into  the  gully.  He  strained  an  instant  against 
sliding  further  back,  gathering  himself  in  an  agony  of 
effort  and  floundered  safely  up ! 

Bruce  became  conscious  that  Ann's  arms  were  about 


160  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

his  neck,  that  her  body  was  close  against  his.  He  knew 
that  his  limbs  quivered,  partly  from  the  recent  fright, 
partly  from  contact  with  the  woman. 

Abe  staggered  forward  a  few  steps,  halted  and 
turned  to  look  at  his  unfortunate  brother  galloping 
lamely  toward  Yavapai. 

Except  for  the  animal's  breathing,  the  world  was 
very  quiet.  For  a  moment  Ann  lay  in  Bayard's  em- 
brace; his  one  arm  was  about  her  shoulders,  the  other 
hooked  behind  her  knees;  then,  convulsively,  her  arms 
tightened  about  his  neck;  she  pressed  her  cheek  against 
his  and  clung  so  while  their  hearts  throbbed,  one  against 
the  other.  He  had  not  moved,  he  refrained  from 
crushing  her,  from  taking  her  lips  with  his.  It  cost 
him  dearly  and  the  effort  to  resist  shot  another  tremor 
through  his  frame.     On  that  she  roused. 

"  I  wasn't  afraid  .  .  .  after  1  knew  it  was  you,"  she 
said,  raising  her  Kead. 

"  I  was,  ma'am,"  he  said,  soberly,  lifting  and  seating 
her  on  Abe's  withers. 

"  I  was  mighty  scared.  See  what  happened  to  your 
horse?  That  .  .  .  You'd  have  been  with  him  in  those 
rocks." 

He  dismounted,  still  supporting  her  in  her  position. 

"  You  sit  in  th'  saddle,  ma'am;  I'll  walk  an'  lead  Abe. 
You're  .  .  .  you're  not  scared  now?  " 

"  A  little," —  breathing  deeply  as  he  helped  her,  and, 
laughing  in  a  strained  tone.  "  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  be  fright- 
ened later  I  expect,  but  I'm  not  now  .  .  .  much.   .  .  . 


THE  RUNAWAY  161 

It's  you,  you  keep  me  from  it,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not 
frightened  with  you." 

"  I  tried  to  keep  things  so  you  won't  have  to  be, 
ma'am." 

Probably  because  she  was  weak,  perhaps  wholly  be- 
cause of  the  hot  yearning  that  contact  with  him  had 
roused  in  her,  Ann  swayed  down  toward  him.  It  was 
as  though  she  would  fall  into  his  arms,  as  though  she 
herself  would  stir  his  repressed  desire  for  her  until  it 
overcame  his  own  judgment,  and  yield  to  his  will  there 
in  the  brilliant  afternoon;  as  though  she  were  going  to 
him,  then,  for  all  time,  regardless  of  everything,  caring 
only  for  the  instant  that  her  lips  should  be  on  his.  He 
started  forward,  flung  up  one  arm  as  though  to  catch 
her;  then  drew  back. 

"  Don't,  ma'am,"  he  begged.  "Don't!  For  the 
sake  .  .  .   for  your  sake,  don't." 

The  woman  swallowed  and  straightened  her  back  as 
though  just  coming  to  the  complete  realization  of  what 
had  happened. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  whispered. 

They  had  not  heard  Nora  riding  down  to  them,  so 
great  was  their  absorption  in  one  another,  but  at  that 
moment  when  Ann's  head  drooped  and  Bayard's  shoul- 
ders flexed  as  from  a  great  fatigue  the  waitress  halted 
her  horse  beside  them. 

"God!     I  didn't  think.  .  .  ." 

She  had  looked  at  them  with  the  fear  that  had 
struck   her   as    she   watched   the   last  phase   of   their 


1 62  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

descent  still  gripping  her.  But  in  their  faces  she  read 
that  which  they  both  struggled  to  hide  from  one  an- 
other and  the  light  that  had  been  in  her  eyes  went  out. 
She  turned  her  face  away  from  them,  looking  out  at  the 
long  afternoon  shadows. 

"  I'll  have  to  be  gettin'  back,"  she  said,  dully,  as 
though  unconscious  of  the  words. 

"  We'll  go  with  you,  Nora,"  the  man  said,  very 
quietly.  "  Mrs.  Lytton,"  he  pronounced  the  words  dis- 
tinctly as  if  to  impress  himself  with  their  significance  — 
"  is  the  first  person  who  has  ever  been  on  Abe  but 
me.  .  .'  .  He  seems  to  like  it." 

Leading  the  horse  by  the  reins,  he  began  to  climb  the 
point  back  toward  the  road.  In  the  east  the  runaway 
had  dwindled  to  a  bobbing  fleck. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    SCOURGING 

In  the  last  moments  of  twilight  Ann  sat  alone  in  her 
room,  cheeks  still  flushed,  limbs  still  trembling  at  inter- 
vals, pulses  retaining  their  swift  measure.  She  was 
unstrung,  aquiver  with  strange  emotions. 

It  was  not  wholly  the  fright  of  the  afternoon  that  had 
provoked  her  nerves  to  this  state;  it  was  not  alone  the 
emotional  surging  loosed  by  her  moment  in  Bayard's 
arms,  her  cheek  against  his  cheek;  nor  was  it  entirely  in- 
spired by  the  fact,  growing  in  portent  with  each  passing 
hour,  that  Bruce  had  told  her  his  work  with  Ned  Lytton 
was  all  but  ended,  that  within  a  day  or  two  he  was  send- 
ing her  husband  to  her.  It  was  a  combination  of  all 
this,  with  possibly  her  husband's  impending  return 
forming  a  background. 

Again  and  again  she  saw  Bruce  as  he  delivered  his 
message,  heard  his  even,  dogged  voice  uttering  the 
words.  He  had  waited  until  they  reached  the  hotel, 
he  had  let  Nora  leave  them  and,  then,  in  the  sunset 
quiet,  standing  on  the  steps  where  she  had  first  seen 
him,  he  had  refused  to  hear  her  thanks  for  saving  her 
from  bodily  hurt,  and  had  broken  in: 

163 


1 64  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  It  ain't  likely  I'll  be  in  again  for  a  while,  ma'am. 
Your  husband's  about  ready  to  move.  I've  done  all  I 
can;  it'd  only  hurt  him  to  stay  on  against  his  will. 
Sometime  this  week,  ma'am,  he'll  be  comin'." 

And  that  was  Wednesday !  She  had  been  struck  stu- 
pid by  his  words.  She  had  heard  him  no  further, 
though  he  did  say  other  things;  she  had  watched  him 
go,  unable  to  call  him  back. 

It  relieved  Ann  not  at  all  to  tell  herself  that  it  was 
this  for  which  she  had  waited,  had  worried,  had  re- 
strained herself  throughout  these  weeks;  that  she  had 
come  West  to  find  her  husband  and  that  she  was  about 
to  join  him,  knowing  that  he  was  strengthened,  that  he 
had  been  lifted  up  to  a  physical  and  mental  level  where 
she  might  guide  him,  aid  him  in  the  fight  which  must 
continue. 

That  knowledge  was  no  solace.  It  was  that  for 
which  she  had  outwardly  waited,  but  it  was  that  against 
which  she  inwardly  recoiled.  She  realized  this  truth 
now,  and  conscience  cried  back  that  it  must  not  be  so, 
that  she  must  stifle  that  feeling  of  revulsion,  that  she 
must  welcome  her  husband,  eagerly,  gladly.  And  it 
went  on  to  accuse  .  .  .  that  conscience;  it  shamed  her 
because  she  had  been  held  to  the  breast  of  another 
man;  it  scorned  her  because  she  had  drawn  herself 
closer  to  him  with  her  own  arms;  it  taunted  her  bitterly 
because  she  could  not  readily  agree  with  her  older  self 
that  in  the  doing  she  had  sinned,  because  to  her  slowly 


THE  SCOURGING  165 

opening  eyes  that  moment  had  seemed  the  most  beauti- 
ful interval  of  her  life ! 

A  peculiar  difference  in  the  vivacity  of  her  impres- 
sions had  been  asserting  itself.  The  memory  of  the 
runaway  had  faded.  Her  picture  of  the  moment 
when  she  strained  her  body  against  Bayard's  was  not 
so  clear  as  it  had  been  an  hour  before,  though  the  thrill, 
the  great  joy  of  it,  still  remained  to  mingle  with  those 
other  thoughts  and  emotions  which  confused  her. 
The  last  great  impression  of  the  day,  though  — 
Bayard's  solemn  announcement  of  his  completed  task 
—  grew  more  sharply  defined,  more  outstanding,  more 
important  as  the  moments  passed,  because  its  eventu- 
ality was  a  thing  before  which  she  felt  powerless  in  the 
face  of  her  conscience,  before  which  all  this  other  must 
be  forgotten,  before  which  this  new  rebellious  Ann 
must  give  way  to  the  old  long-suffering,  submissive 
wife.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  known  her  moment 
of  beauty  and  that  it  had  gone,  leaving  her  not  even  a 
sweet  memory;  for  her  grimmer  self  whispered  that 
that  brief  span  of  time  had  been  vile,  unchaste.  And 
yet,  in  the  next  moment,  her  strength  had  rallied  and 
she  was  fighting  against  the  influence  of  tradition, 
against  blind  precedents. 

A  knock  came  on  her  door  and  Ann,  wondering 
with  a  tnrill  if  it  could  be  Bayard,  both  troubled  and 
pleased  at  the  possibility,  stepped  across  the  floor  to  an- 
swer it. 


i66  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Oh,  Nora!  "  she  said  in  surprise.  "  Come  in," — 
when  the  girl  stood  still  in  the  hall,  neither  offering  to 
speak  nor  to  enter.  "  Do  come  in,"  she  insisted  after 
a  pause  and  the  other  crossed  the  threshold,  still  with- 
out speaking. 

"  I've  been  sitting  here  in  the  dark  thinking  about 
what  happened  this  afternoon,"  Ann  said,  drawing  a 
chair  to  face  hers  that  was  by  the  window.  "  It  was 
all  very  exciting,  wasn't  it?  " 

Nora  had  followed  across  the  room  slowly  and  Ann 
felt  that  the  girl's  gaze  held  on  her  with  unusual  stead- 
fastness. 

"  I  guess  it's  a  fortunate  thing  that  Bruce  Bayard 
came  along  when  he  did.  I  ...  I  tremble  every 
time  I  think  of  the  way  my  horse  went  down !  "  She 
broke  off  and  laughed  nervously. 

Nora  stood  before  her,  still  silent,  still  eyeing  her 
pointedly. 

"Well  .  .  .  Won't  you  sit  down,  Nora?" — con- 
fused by  the  portentous  silence  and  the  staring  of  the 
other.     "  Won't  you  sit  down  here?  " 

Mechanically  the  girl  took  her  seat  and  Ann,  won- 
dering what  this  strange  bearing  might  mean,  resumed 
her  own  chair.  They  sat  so,  facing  one  another  in  the 
last  sunset  glow,  the  one  staring  stolidly,  Ann  covering 
her  embarrassment,  her  wonder  with  a  forced  smile. 
Gradually,  that  smile  faded,  an  uncertainty  appeared 
in  Ann's  eyes  and  she  broke  out: 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Nora?  " 


THE  SCOURGING  167 

At  that  question  the  girl  averted  her  face  and  let 
her  hands  drop  down  over  the  chair  arms  with  careless 
laxity. 

"Don't  you  know  what  it  is?"  she  asked,  in  her 
deep,  throaty  voice,  meeting  Ann's  inquiring  gaze,  shift- 
ing her  eyes  quickly,  moving  her  shoulders  with  a  slight 
suggestion  of  defiance. 

"  Why,  no,  Nora  !  You're  so  queer.  Is  something 
troubling  you?     Can't  you  tell  me?  " 

Ann  leaned  forward  solicitously. 

The  waitress  laughed  sharply,  and  lifted  a  hand  to 
her  brow,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  it  is?  "  she  asked  again,  voice 
hardening.  "Can't  you  see?  Are  you  blind?  Or 
are  you  afraid? 

"  What'd  you  come  out  here  for  anyhow?  "  she  cried, 
abruptly  accusing,  one  hand  out  in  a  gesture  of  chal- 
lenge, and  Ann  could  see  an  angry  flush  come  into  her 
face  and  her  lower  lids  puff  with  the  emotion. 

"  Why,  Nora.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  tell  me !  I  know  what  you  come  for !  You 
come  to  look  after  your  worthless  whelp  of  a  man; 
that's  why;  an'  you  stayed  to  try  to  take  mine!  " — 
voice  weakening  as  she  again  turned  her  face  toward 
the  window. 

"  Why,  Nora  Brewster  .  .  ." 

The  sharp  shake  of  the  girl's  arm  threw  off  Ann's 
hand  that  had  gone  out  to  grasp  it  and  the  rasp  in 
Nora's  voice  checked  the  eastern  woman's  protest. 


1 68  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Don't  try  to  tell  me  anything  different!  I  know! 
Can't  I  see?  Am  I  as  blind  as  you  try  to  make  me 
think  you  are?  " — with  another  swagger  of  the  shoul- 
ders as  she  moved  in  her  chair.  "  Can't  I  see  what's 
goin'  on?  Can't  I  see  you  makin'  up  to  him  an'  eyein' 
him  an'  leadin'  him  on?  —  You,  a  married  woman!  " 

"  Nora,  stop  it!  " 

With  set  mouth  Ann  straightened,  her  breathing 
audible. 

"  I  won't  stop.  You're  goin'  to  hear  me  through, 
understand?  You're  goin'  to  know  all  about  it;  you're 
goin'  to  know  what  I  am  an'  what  he  is  an'  what's  been 
between  us  .  .  .  what  you've  been  breakin'  up.  Then, 
I  guess  you  won't  come  in  here  with  your  swell  eastern 
ways  an'  try  to  take  him.   ...   I  guess  not!  " 

She  laughed  bitterly  and  Ann  could  see  the  baleful 
glow  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  told  you  that  he  brung  me  here  an'  put  me  to 
work,  I  guess.  Well,  that  was  so;  he  did.  I'll  tell 
you  where  he  got  me."  She  hitched  forward.  "  He 
brung  me  from  th'  Fork.  You  come  through  there; 
all  you  know  'bout  it  is  that  there's  a  swell  hotel  there 
an'  it's  a  junction  point.  Well,  the's  a  lot  more  to 
know  about  th'  Fork  ...  or  was." 

She  paused  a  moment  and  rubbed  her  palms  together 
triumphantly,  as  if  she  had  long  anticipated  this  mo- 
ment. 

"  When  I  was  there,  the'  wasn't  no  hotel;  the'  wasn't 


THE  SCOURGING  169 

nothin'  but  a  junction  an'  .  .  .  hell  itself.  'Twasn't  a 
place  with  much  noise  about  it,  not  so  many  killin's  as 
some  places  maybe,  but  'twas  bad,  low  down. 

"  The'  was  a  place  there  .  .  .  Charley  Ling's.  .  .  . 
'Twas  a  Chinese  place,  with  white  women.  I  was  one 
of  'em." 

Ann  gasped  slightly  and  drew  back,  and  Nora 
laughed. 

"  I  thought  that'd  hurt,"  she  mocked.  "  I  thought 
you  couldn't  stand  it! 

"  Charley's  was  a  fine  place.  Sheep  herders  come 
there  an'  Mexicans  an'  sometimes  somebody  of  darker 
color.  We  wasn't  particular,  see?  We  wasn't  par- 
ticular, I  guess  not !  Men  was  white  or  black  or  red  or 
yellow  or  brown,  but  their  money  was  all  one 
color.  .  .  . 

"  The'  was  dope  an'  booze  an'  .  .  .  hell.  .  .  . 
Charley's  was  a  reg'lar  boil  on  th'  face  of  God's  earth, 
that's  what  it  was.  .  .  .  He  —  Bruce  Bayard  —  got 
me  out  of  there." 

The  girl  breathed  hard  and  swiftly.  Her  upper  lip 
was  drawn  back  and  her  white  teeth  gleamed  in  the 
semi-darkness  as  she  sat  forward  in  her  chair,  flushed, 
her  accusing  face  thrust  forward  toward  the  be- 
wildered, horrified  Ann  Lytton. 

"  He  got  me  there,  so  you  know  what  I  was,  what  I 
am.  He  brung  me  here,  got  me  this  job,  has  kept  me 
here  ever  since," — with  a  suggestion  of  faltering  pur- 


170  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

pose  in  her  voice.  "  It's  been  him  ever  since;  just  him. 
I'll  say  that  for  myself.  I've  been  on  th'  level  with 
Bruce  an'  ain't  had  nothin'  to  do  with  others. 

"  You  see  he's  mine!" — her  voice,  which  had 
dropped  to  a  monotone,  rose  bitingly  again.  "  He's 
mine;  he's  all  I  got.  If  'twasn't  for  him,  I  wouldn't  be 
here.  If  he  quits  me,  I'll  go  back  to  that  other.  I 
don't  want  to  go  back;  so  long  as  he  sticks  by  me  I 
won't  go  back.  If  I  leave,  it'll  be  because  I'm  drove 
back.  .  .  . 

"  That's  what  you're  doin'.  You're  drivin'  me  back 
to  Charley's  ...  or  some  place  like  it.   .  .   ." 

She  moved  from  side  to  side,  defiantly,  and  leaned 
further  forward,  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  star- 
ing out  into  the  darkened  street  below  them. 

"You  come  here,  a  married  woman;  you  got  one 
man  now,  an'  he  don't  suit.  So  you  think  you're  goin' 
to  take  mine.  That's  big  business  for  a  ...  a  re- 
spectable lady,  like  yourself,  ain't  it?  Stealin'  a  man 
off  a  woman  like  me !  " 

She  laughed  shortly,  and  did  not  so  much  as  look  up 
as  Ann  tried  to  reply  and  could  not  make  words  frame 
coherent  sentences. 

"  I've  kept  still  until  now,  'cause  I  ain't  proud  of  my 
past,  'cause  I  thought  you,  havin'  one  man,  had  enough 
without  meddlin'  with  mine.  But  I'm  through  keepin' 
my  mouth  shut  now," —  menacingly.  "  I'm  through, 
I  tell  you," — wiping  her  hands  along  her  thighs  and 


THE  SCOURGING  171 

straightening  her  body  slowly  as  she  turned  a  malevo- 
lent gaze  on  the  silent  Ann.  "  You're  tryin'  to  take 
what  belongs  to  me  an'  I  won't  set  by  an'  let  you  walk 
off  with  him.     I'll  — 

"  Why,  what'd  this  town  say,  if  I  was  to  tell  'em 
you're  Ned  Lytton's  wife  instead  of  his  sister?  They 
all  know  you've  been  havin'  Bruce  come  here  to  your 
room;  they  all  think  he's  your  lover.  First  thing, 
they'd  fire  you  out  of  th'  hotel;  then,  they'd  laugh  at 
you  as  you  walked  along  th'  street !  It'd  ruin  him,  too ; 
what  with  keepin'  your  man  out  at  his  ranch  so's  he  can 
see  you  without  trouble !  " 

Her  voice  had  mounted  steadily  and,  at  the  last,  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  bending  over  the  bewildered  Ann  and 
gesturing  heavily  with  her  right  arm  while  the  other 
was  pressed  tightly  across  her  chest. 

"That's  what  I  come  here  to  tell  you  to-night!" 
she  cried.  "  That's  what  you  know,  now.  But  I  want 
you  to  know  that  while  I've  been  bad,  as  bad  as  women 
get,  that  I've  been  open  about  it;  I  ain't  been  no  hypo- 
crite; I  ain't  passed  as  a  good  woman  an'  .  .  .  been 
bad—" 

"  Nora,  stop  this!  " 

Ann  leaped  to  her  feet  and  confronted  the  girl,  for 
the  moment  furious,  combative.  They  faced  one  an- 
other in  the  faint  light  that  came  through  the  windows 
and  before  her  roused  intensity  Nora  stepped  back- 
ward, yielding  suddenly,   frightened  by  this  show  of 


i72  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

vigorous  indignation,  for  she  had  believed  that  her 
accusation  would  grind  the  spirit,  the  pride,  from  Ann. 

"  Why,  you-u-u-  .  .  ." 

Ann's  hands  clenched  and  opened  convulsively  at  her 
sides  as  she  groped  fruitlessly  for  words. 

"  You  go  now,  Nora ;  go  away  from  me !  What  you 
have  said  has  been  too  contemptible,  too  base  for  me 
even  to  answer!  " 

She  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  faced 
about  with  a  gesture  of  command.  Nora  hesitated  a 
moment,  then,  without  a  word,  walked  from  the  room. 
In  the  hall  she  paused,  back  still  toward  Ann  as  though 
she  had  more  that  she  would  say,  as  if,  possibly,  she 
considered  the  advisability  of  going  further;  but,  if 
that  was  true,  she  had  no  opportunity  then,  for  the 
door  closed  firmly  and  the  lock  clicked. 

It  was  the  most  confused  moment  in  Ann's  life.  The 
identification  of  her  husband,  her  several  trying  scenes 
with  Bayard,  would  not  compare  with  it.  She  heard 
Nora's  slow,  receding  footsteps  with  infinite  relief  and, 
when  they  were  quite  gone,  she  realized  that  as  she 
stood,  back  to  the  door,  she  was  shaking  violently. 
She  was  weakened,  frightened  by  what  had  passed,  and, 
as  she  strove  through  those  minutes  to  control  her 
thoughts,  to  marshal  the  elements  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  had  come,  she  became  possessed  by  the  terri- 
fying conviction  that  she  had  no  defence  to  offer! 
That  she  could  not  answer  the  other  woman's  accusa- 
tions, that  by  telling  Nora  she  was  above  replying  to 


THE  SCOURGING  173 

those  charges  she  was  only  hiding  behind  a  front  of 
false  superiority,  a  veneer  of  assurance  that  was  as 
artificial  as  it  was  thin. 

She  moved  to  her  bed  with  lagging,  uncertain  steps 
and  sat  down  with  a  long  sigh;  then,  drew  a  wrist  across 
her  eyes,  propping  herself  erect  with  the  other  arm. 

"  She  ...  he  belongs  to  her  .  .  ."  she  said  aloud, 
trying  to  bring  coherence  to  her  thinking  by  the  uttered 
words.     "  He  belongs  ...  to  her.  .  .  ." 

A  slow  warmth  went  through  her  body,  into  her 
cheeks  to  make  them  flame  fiercely.  That  was  a  sense 
of  guilt  coming  over  her,  shaming  her,  torturing  her, 
and  behind  it,  inspiring,  urging  it  along,  giving  it 
strength,  was  that  conscience  of  hers. 

At  other  times  she  had  defied  that  older  self;  only 
that  evening  she  had  regained  some  of  the  ground  from 
which  it  had  driven  her  by  its  last  assault,  lifting  her- 
self above  the  judgments  she  had  been  trained  to  re- 
spect because,  in  transgressing  them,  she  had  expe- 
rienced a  free,  holy  joy  that  had  never  been  hers  so  long 
as  she  had  remained  within  their  bounds.  But  now! 
That  cry  for  escape  was  gone. 

She  had  been  stealing  another  woman's  man  .  .  . 
and  such  a  woman ! 

Never  before  had  she  faced  such  ugly  truths  as  the 
girl  had  poured  upon  her.  Of  the  cancerous  places  in 
the  social  structure  she  had  known,  of  course;  at  times 
she  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  judge  herself  a  wide- 
awake, keen-seeing  woman,  but  now  .  .  .  she  shud- 


174  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

dered  as  the  woman's  words  came  back  to  her,  "  White 
or  black  or  red  or  brown;  but  their  money  was  all  th' 
same  color."  That  was  too  horrible,  too  revolting; 
she  could  not  accept  it  with  a  detached  point  of  view. 
Its  very  truth  —  she  did  not  doubt  it  —  smirched  her, 
for  she  had  been  stealing  the  man  of  such  a  woman ! 

Oh,  that  conscience  was  finding  its  revenge !  That 
day  it  had  been  outraged,  had  been  all  but  unseated; 
but  now  it  came  back  with  a  vengeance.  She,  the  law- 
ful wife  of  Ned  Lytton,  had  plotted  to  win  Bruce  Bay- 
ard. No,  she  had  not!  one  part  of  her  protested,  as 
she  weakened  and  sought  for  any  escape  that  meant  re- 
lief. You  did,  you  did !  thundered  that  older  self.  By 
passively  accepting,  as  a  fact,  her  want  of  him,  she  had 
sinned.  By  finding  joy  in  his  touch,  at  sight  of  him, 
she  had  grievously  wronged  not  only  Ned  and  herself 
but  all  people.  She  was  a  contaminated  thing!  She 
was  as  bad,  worse  than  Nora  Brewster,  because,  while 
Nora  had  sinned,  she  admitted  it,  had  done  it  openly, 
and  frankly  while  she,  Ann  Lytton,  had  covered  it  with 
a  cloak  of  hypocrisy,  had  refused  to  admit  her  trans- 
gressions even  to  herself  and  lied  and  distorted  hap- 
penings, even  her  thoughts,  until  they  were  made  to 
appease  her  craven  heart! 

"She  said  it;  she  said  it!"  Ann  muttered  aloud. 
"  She  said  that  I  was  a  hypocrite.  She  said  .  .  .  she 
did  not  hide!  "  Then,  for  a  moment,  she  was  firm, 
drawing  her  body,  even,  to  firmness  to  contend  more 
effectively  against  these  suggestive  accusations.     What 


THE  SCOURGING  175 

matter  if  she  were  married?  What  if  Bayard  did  love 
an  abandoned  woman?  What  mattered  anything  but 
that  she  loved  him? 

And,  as  though  it  had  waited  for  her  to  go  that  far 
to  show  her  hand,  that  other  self  cried  out:  "To 
your  God  you  have  given  your  word  to  love  this  man, 
your  husband!  To  your  God  you  have  promised  to 
love  no  other!  To  your  God  you  have  pledged  him 
your  body,  your  soul,  your  life,  come  what  may!  " 

She  cowered  before  the  thought,  tearless,  silent, 
and  sat  there,  going  through  and  through  the  same 
emotional  experiences,  always  coming  against  the  stone 
wall  formed  by  her  concepts  of  honor  and  morality. 

In  another  room  of  the  Manzanita  House  another 
woman  fought  with  herself  that  night.  Nora,  too, 
stood  backed  against  her  locked  door  a  long  time  after 
she  had  gained  its  refuge,  bewildered,  trying  to  think 
her  way  to  a  clear  understanding  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened. Its  entire  consequence  came  to  her  sooner  than 
it  had  come  to  Ann.  She  groped  along  the  wall  to  her 
matchsafe,  scratched  a  light,  removed  the  chimney 
from  her  lamp  and  set  the  wick  burning.  She  waved 
out  the  match  absently,  put  the  charred  remains  in  the 
oilcloth  cover  of  the  washstand  and  said  to  herself, 

"  Well,  I've  done  it." 

It  was  as  though  she  spoke  of  the  accomplishment 
of  an  end  the  advisability  of  which  had  been  debatable 
in  her  mind,  and  as  if  there  were  now  no  remedy. 
What  was  done,  was  done;  events  of  the  past  could  not 


176  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

be  altered,  their  consequences  could  not  be  changed. 

She  undressed  listlessly,  put  on  her  nightgown  and 
moved  to  the  crinkled  mirror  to  take  down  her  hair. 

"  I  guess  that'll  fix  her,"  she  muttered.  "  She'll  get 
out,  now  .  .   ." 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror  as  she  began  to 
speak,  but,  when  her  sight  met  its  own  reflection,  her 
voice  faltered,  the  words  trailed  off.  She  stood  mo- 
tionless, scrutinizing  herself  closely,  critically-  then  saw 
a  slow  flush  come  up  from  her  neck,  flooding  her  cheeks. 
Uneasily  her  eyes  dropped  from  their  reflection,  then 
shot  back  with  a  rallying  of  the  dark  defiance  that  had 
been  in  them;  only  for  an  instant,  for  the  fire  disap- 
peared, they  became  unsteady. 

Her  movements  grew  rapid.  She  drew  hairpins 
from  the  coils  and  dropped  them  heedlessly.  She 
shook  out  her  hair  and  brushed  it  with  nervous  vigor; 
then  braided  it  feverishly,  as  if  some  inner  emotion 
might  find  vent  in  that  simple  task. 

Time  after  time  she  shot  glances  into  the  mirror,  but 
in  each  instance  she  felt  her  cheeks  burn  more  fiercely, 
saw  the  confused  humility  increasing  in  her  expression 
and,  finally,  her  rapid  breathing  lost  its  regularity,  her 
lips  quivered  and  her  shoulders  lifted  in  a  sob.  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  pressing  finger  tips 
tightly  against  her  eyes,  struggling  to  master  herself,  to 
bring  again  that  defiant  spirit.  But  she  could  not;  it 
had  gone  and  she  was  fighting  doggedly  against  the  re- 


THE  SCOURGING  177 

action,  knowing  that  it  must  come,  knowing  what  it 
would  be,  almost  terror  stricken  at  the  realization. 

She  paced  the  floor,  stopping  now  and  then,  and 
finally  cried  aloud: 

"She  was  stealin'  him;  he  is  mine!" — as  though 
some  presence  had  accused  her  of  a  lie.  Again,  she 
repeated  the  words,  but  in  a  whisper;  and  conviction 
was  not  with  her. 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  but  could  not 
remain  quiet,  and  commenced  walking,  moving  auto- 
matically, almost  dreamlike,  distressed,  flinging  her 
arms  about  like  a  guilt-maddened  Lady  Macbeth. 
Each  time  she  passed  the  mirror  she  experienced  a  ter- 
rible desire  to  meet  her  own  gaze  again,  but  she  would 
not,  for  her  own  eyes  accused  her,  bored  relentlessly 
into  her  heart. 

"  An'  I  called  her  a  hypocrite,"  she  burst  out  sud- 
denly, halted,  turned  and  rushed  back  toward  the 
dresser,  straining  forward,  forcing  her  gaze  to  read 
the  soul  that  was  bared  before  her,  there  in  the  mirror. 

"  You  lied  to  her!  "  she  muttered.  "  You  told  her 
dirty  lies;  you're  throwin'  him  down.  You're  killin' 
her  .  .  .  You  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  Bruce,  Bruce !  " 

She  turned  away  and  let  the  tears  come  again. 

"  You'd  hate  me,  Bruce,  you'd  hate  me!  " 

She  threw  herself  full  length  on  the  bed.  Jealousy 
had  had  its  inning.     All  the  bitterness  that  it  could 


178  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

create  had  been  flung  forth  on  to  the  woman  who  had 
roused  it  and  then  the  emotion  had  died.  Strong  as  it 
was  in  Nora,  the  elemental,  the  childish,  it  was  not  so 
strong  as  her  loyalty  to  Bayard's  influence  and  the 
same  thing  in  her  that  would  have  welcomed  physical 
abuse  from  him  now  called  on  her  to  undo  her  work  of 
the  evening,  to  strive  to  prevent  his  love  for  Ann  from 
wasting  itself,  though  every  effort  that  she  might  make 
toward  that  end  would  cause  her  suffering. 

It  was  midnight  when  Ann  Lytton,  still  motionless, 
still  chilling  and  flushing  as  thought  followed  thought 
through  her  confused  mind,  found  herself  in  the  center 
of  her  dark  room.  The  knock  that  had  roused  her  to 
things  outside  sounded  again  on  her  door,  low  and 
cautious. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  she  asked,  unsteadily. 

"  It's  me,  Nora." 

The  tone  was  husky,  weak,  contrite. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want,  Nora?  " —  summoning  a 
sternness  for  the  query. 

"  I  ...  I  want  to  come  in;  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thin'  .  .  .  if  you'll  let  me." 

Ann  calculated  a  moment,  but  the  quality  of  the 
other  woman's  voice,  supplicating,  uncertain,  swung  the 
balance  and  she  unlocked  the  door,  opening  it  wide. 
Nora  stood  in  her  long  white  gown,  head  hung,  fingers 
nervously  intertwining  before  her. 

A  pitiable  humility  was  about  the  girl,  and  on  sight 
of  it  Ann's  manner  changed. 


THE  SCOURGING  179 

"  What  is  it,  Nora?     Won't  you  come  in?  " 

She  stepped  forward,  took  her  by  the  hand  and  gently 
urged  her  into  the  room,  closing  the  door. 

"  Sit  on  the  bed,  Nora,  while  I  light  the  lamp." 

"  Oh,  M's.  Lytton,  please  don't  .  .  ." —  with  an  un- 
easy movement.  "  I'd  rather  .  .  .  not  have  to  look 
at  you.  .  .  ." 

A  pause. 

"  Why,  if  you  want  it  that  way,  of  course,  Nora. 
Sit  down  here.     Aren't  you  cold  ?  " 

She  took  a  shawl  from  its  hook,  threw  it  across  the 
other's  shoulders  and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  drawing 
Nora  to  her  side.  An  awkward  silence  followed,  then 
came  the  sound  of  Nora's  crying,  lifted  to  a  pitch  just 
above  a  sigh. 

"Don't,  Nora!  Please,  don't!  What  is  it,  now? 
Tell  me  ...  do  tell  me,"  Ann  pleaded,  growing 
stronger,  of  better  balance,  feeling  some  of  her  genuine 
assurance  returning. 

"  I  ...  I  lied  to  you.  I  .  .  ."  Nora  began  and 
stopped. 

Ann  uttered  no  word;  just  inhaled  very  slowly  and 
squared  her  shoulders  with  relief. 

"  I  .  .  .  was  jealous  of  you.  When  I  saw  him  with 
his  arms  around  you  this  afternoon,  I  .  .  .  couldn't 
stand  it.     I  had  to  do  somethin'.     I  was  drove  to  it." 

She  brushed  the  damp  hair  back  from  her  forehead 
and  cleared  her  throat.  She  clutched  Ann's  one  hand 
in  both  hers  and  turned  to  talk  closely  into  her  face. 


180  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  I  ...  it  wasn't  all  lies.  That  part  about  me, 
about  Charley  Ling's,  was  true.  It  was  true  that  Bruce 
took  me  out  of  there,  too,  but  not  for  what  you  think. 
I  ...  I  was  pretty  bad  for  a  young  girl,  but  I  never 
knew  much  different  until  I  knew  Bruce.  ...  I  didn't 
know  much. 

"  I  was  at  Ling's.  I  didn't  lie  about  that,"  she  re- 
peated stoically,  baring  her  shame  in  an  attempt  to 
atone  for  her  former  behavior.  "  I'd  been  there  quite 
a  while,  when  one  night  when  the'  was  whiskey  an' 
men  an'  hell,  he  come.   .  .  . 

"  I'll  never  forget  it.  I  can't.  He  was  so  big  that 
he  filled  th'  door,  he  was  so  .  .  .  different,  so  clean  an' 
disgusted-like,  that  it  stopped  th'  noise  for  a  minute. 
He  stood  lookin'  us  over;  then  he  saw  me  an'  looked 
an'  looked,  an'  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  but  hang  my  head 
when  'twas  my  business  to  laugh  at  him. 

"  He  didn't  say  a  word  at  first,  but  he  come  across  to 
to  me  an'  set  down  beside  me,  an'  when  th'  piano  started 
again  an'  folks  quit  givin'  us  attention  he  said, 

"  '  You're  only  a  kid.' 

"  Just  that;  but  it  made  me  cry.  He  was  so  kind  of 
accusin'  an'  so  gentle.  Nobody'd  ever  been  gentle  with 
me  before  that  I  could  remember  of.  They'd  been 
accusin'  all  right,  all  right  .  .  .  but  not  gentle.  He 
went  away  that  night  an'  I  cried  until  it  was  light.  In 
th'  mornin'  he  come  back  an'  asked  for  me  an'  took  me 
outdoors  an'  talked  to  me.  He  talked.  .  .  .  He 
didn't  do  no  preachin';  he  didn't  say  nothin'  about  bein' 


THE  SCOURGING  181 

good  or  bein'  bad.  He  just  said  that  that  place  wasn't 
fit  for  coyotes  to  live  in,  that  I'd  never  see  th'  mountains 
or  th'  stars  or  th'  sunshine  livin'  there.  He  said 
that.  .  .  .  An'  he  said  he'd  get  me  a  job  here  in 
Yavapai.  .  .  . 

"  He  did.  Got  me  this  job,  in  this  hotel.  He  stuck 
by  me  when  folks  started  to  talk;  he  stopped  it.  He 
taught  me  to  ride  an'  like  horses  an'  dogs  an'  th'  valley 
an'  things  like  that.  He  give  me  things  to  read  an' 
talked  to  me  about  'em  an'  .  .  .  was  good  to  me. 

"  I've  always  been  like  his  sister.  That's  straight, 
M's.  Lytton;  that's  no  lie.  He's  been  my  brother; 
that's  all.  More  'n  that,  I'm  about  th'  only  woman 
he's  looked  at  in  three  years  until  .  .  .  you  come.  He 
ain't  a  saint  but  he's  .  .  .  an  awful  fine  man." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  and  stroked  the  hand  she 
had  taken  in  hers. 

"  That's  all.  That's  all  the'  is  to  say.  I've  tried  to 
get  him,  tried  to  make  him  care  for  me  .  .  .  a  lot;  but 
I  ain't  his  kind," — with  a  slow  shake  of  the  head  as 
she  withdrew  one  hand.  "  I  can  never  be  his  kind  .  .  . 
in  that  way.  I've  known  it  all  along,  but  I've  never  let 
myself  believe  th'  truth.  He  didn't  know,  didn't  even 
guess.  That's  how  hopeless  it  was.  He  ain't  never 
seen  that  I'd  do  .  .  .  anythin'  for  him. 

"  When  you  come,  I  saw  th'  difference  in  him  .  .  . 
right  off.  He  .  .  .  You're  his  kind,  M's.  Lytton. 
You're  what  he's  waited  for,  what  he's  lookin'  for.  I 
was  jealous.     I  hated  you  from  th'  first.     I  was  nice 


1 82  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

to  you  'cause  he  wanted  it,  'cause  that  would  make  him 
happier.  I  fought  against  showin'  what  I  felt  for  his 
sake  .  .  .  for  him.  Then,  to-day,  when  I  seen  how 
he  looked  after  he'd  had  you  in  his  arms  where  I've 
wanted  to  be  always,  as  I've  wanted  to  make  him  look, 
I.  .  .  . 

"  It  made  me  kind  of  crazy.  I  felt  like  tellin'  you 
what  I  was,  lyin'  about  what  I  was  to  Bruce,  thinkin'  it 
might  drive  you  away  an'  I  might  sometime  make  him 
love  me.  But,  after  I'd  done  it,  after  I  got  it  into 
words,  I  knew  it  was  against  everything  he'd  ever 
taught  me,  against  everything  he'd  ever  been,  an*  that 
if  you  went  't  would  break  his  heart.  That's  why 
I  come  back  to  tell  you  I  lied,  to  tell  you  how  it 
is.  .  .  . 

"  You  go  to  him  now;  you  go  before  it's  too  late.  I 
tried  to  come  between  you  ...  an'  didn't.  You  go  to 
him  before  somethin'  does.  .  .  ." 

She  felt  Ann's  arm  go  about  her  and  stifling  her  sobs 
she  yielded  to  the  pull  until  her  head  rested  on  the  other 
woman's  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Nora,  I  can't  tell  you  how  this  makes  me  feel; 
I  can't.  I'll  never  be  able  to.  There's  nothing  I  can 
say  at  all,  nothing  I  can  do,  even !  " 

The  waitress  lifted  her  face  to  peer  closely  at  her. 

"  Just  one  thing  you  can  do,"  she  said,  lowly.  "  Go 
to  him  now.  That's  what  I  come  back  here  for  —  to 
tell  you  I  lied,  so  you  would  go." 

Ann  straightened  and  shook  her  head  sharply. 


THE  SCOURGING  183 

"  That's  impossible,"  she  said,  emphatically.  "  Im- 
possible." 

"  Impossible,  M's.  Lytton?  " — wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Nora." 

"  But  why?     He  loves  you!  " 

"  When  you  were  here  before  you  gave  the  reason  — 
I'm  a  married  woman." 

"  But  that  ain't.  .  .  .  Why,  do  you  love  your  hus- 
band?" 

She  grasped  Ann's  arm  and  shook  it  gently  as  she  put 
that  question  in  a  voice  that  the  tears  had  made  hoarse, 
and  leaned  forward  to  catch  the  answer.  For  an  in- 
terval Ann  did  not  reply,  gave  no  sign  that  she  had 
heard,  and  Nora  repeated  her  query  with  impressive 
slowness. 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  loving,  Nora,"  she  finally  said. 
"  I'm  his  wife ;  I  have  a  wife's  duty  to  perform." 

"  But  do  you  love  him?  "  the  girl  persisted. 

"  No,  I  don't  any  more  .  .  ." —  sadly,  yet  without 
regret. 

"  An'  you'd  go  back  to  him,  M's.  Lytton?  You'd 
go  back  without  lovin'  him?  " 

Incredulity  was  in  her  tone. 

"  Of  course.  It  is  my  place.  He  is  coming  to  me 
soon,  stronger,  wiser,  I  hope,  and  there's  a  chance  that 
we  will  find  at  least  a  little  peace  together." 

"  But  the'  won't  be  love," —  in  a  whisper. 

Ann  gave  a  little  shudder  and  braced  her  shoulders 
backward. 


1 84  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  No,  Nora.     That  is  past.     Besides,  I  — " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  admit  it !  "  the  girl  urged,  speak- 
ing rapidly.  "  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  I  know 
what  you're  thinkin'.  You  love  Bruce  Bayard!  I 
know;  you  can't  hide  it  from  me,  M's.  Lytton." 

Ann's  fingers  twisted  the  coverlet. 

"And  if  I  do?"  she  asked  weakly.  "What  if  I 
do?" 

"What  if  you  do?  Ain't  Win'  a  man  answer 
enough  for  any  woman?"  cried  the  other.  "Is  the' 
anything  else  that  holds  folks  together?  Is  the'  any- 
thing else  that  makes  men  an'  women  happy?  Does 
your  bein'  a  man's  wife  mean  happiness?  Your 
promisin'  to  love  him  didn't  make  you  love,  did  it?  Be- 
cause a  preacher  told  you  you  was  one  didn't  make  it  so, 
did  it?  Nobody  can  make  you  love  him,  not  even 
yourself,  'cause  you  said  it  was  duty  that  takes  you 
back;  that  you  don't  love  him.  But  you  can't  help 
lovin'  Bruce  Bayard ! 

"  Oh,  M's.  Lytton,  don't  fool  yourself  about  this 
duty !  It's  up  to  a  man  an'  a  woman  to  take  love,  to 
take  happiness,  when  it  comes.  You  can't  set  still  an' 
watch  it  go  by  an'  hope  to  have  it  come  again;  real 
happiness  don't  happen  but  once  in  most  of  our  lives. 
I  know.  I've  been  down  .  .  .  I've  been  happy,  too 
...  I  know ! 

"  An'  duty!  Why,  ma'am,  duty  like  you  think  you 
ought  to  do,  is  waste !  You're  young,  you're  healthy, 
you're  pretty.     You'll  waste  your  best  years,   you'll 


THE  SCOURGING  185 

waste  your  health,  you'll  waste  your  looks  on  duty! 
You'll  waste  all  your  love;  you'll  get  old  an'  bitter 
an'.  .  .  . 

"  If  the's  anything  under  heaven  that's  a  crime,  it's 
wasted  love  !  Oh,  M's.  Lytton,  I  wasted  my  love  when 
I  was  a  kid,  'cause  I  didn't  know  better.  I  sold  mine 
for  money.  For  God's  sake,  don't  sell  yours  for  duty! 
If  the's  anything  your  God  meant  folks  to  do  was  to  get 
what  joy  they  can  out  of  life.  He  wouldn't  want  you 
to  think  of  bein'  Ned  Lytton's  wife  as  ...  as  your 
duty.  He  .  .  .  God  ain't  that  kind,  M's.  Lytton;  he 
ain't!" 

"  Nora,  Nora,  don't  say  these  things !  "  Ann  pleaded. 
81  You're  wrong,  you  must  be !  Don't  tempt  me  to 
.  .  .  these  new  ways  .  .   .  don't.   .  .   ." 

"New!  "  the  girl  broke  in.  "It  ain't  new,  what 
I've  been  sayin'.  It's  as  old  as  men  an'  women.  It's 
as  old  as  th'  world.  Th'  things  you  try  to  make  your- 
self believe  are  th'  new  ones.  Love  was  old  before 
folks  first  thought  about  duty.  It  seems  new,  because 
you  ain't  ever  let  yourself  see  straight  .  .  .  you  never 
had  to  until  now." 

88  Nora,  stop !  You  must  stop !  You  can't  be  right 
.  .  .  you  can't  be !  " 

The  waitress  trembled  against  Ann  and  commenced 
to  cry  under  the  strain  of  her  earnestness. 

"  But  I  know  I'm  right,  M's.  Lytton,  I  know  I  am ! 
I  know  what  you're  doin\  Do  —  don't  you  see  that 
you  wouldn't  be  much  different  from  what  I  was,  if  you 


i86  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

went  back  to  your  husband,  hatin'  him  an'  lovin'  an- 
other? Happiness  comes  just  once;  it's  a  sin  to  let  it 
goby!" 

Slowly  Ann  withdrew  her  embrace  from  the  girl. 
She  sat  with  hands  limp  in  her  lap  until  Nora's  sobbing 
had  subsided  to  mere  long-drawn  breaths;  then  she 
rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
moonlit  night.  And  when  Nora,  drying  her  eyes,  re- 
gaining control  of  her  emotions,  started  to  speak  again 
she  saw  that  Ann  was  lost  in  thought,  that  it  was  un- 
necessary to  argue  further,  so  she  went  quietly  from  the 
room.  The  rattle  of  the  knob,  the  sound  of  the  closing 
door  did  not  rouse  the  woman  she  left  behind.  Ann 
only  stared  out  at  the  far  hills  which  were  a  murky  blot 
in  the  cold  light;  stared  with  eyes  that  did  not  see,  for 
out  of  the  storm  of  that  night  a  new  creature  was  com- 
ing into  active  life  within  her  and  the  re-birth  was  so 
wonderful  that  it  quite  deadened  her  physical  senses. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   WOMAN   ON    HORSEBACK 

Lytton  had  gone  for  a  ride  in  the  hills,  leaving  Bay- 
ard alone  at  the  ranch,  busying  himself  with  accomplish- 
ing many  odds  and  ends  of  tasks  which  had  been  neg- 
lected in  the  weeks  that  his  attention  had  been  divided 
between  his  cattle  and  the  troubles  of  Ann.  Ned  was 
back  to  his  usual  strength,  now;  also,  his  mending 
mental  attitude  had  made  him  a  better  companion,  a 
less  trying  patient.  He  rode  daily,  he  helped  some- 
what with  the  ranch  work,  his  sleeps  were  long  and  un- 
troubled. The  first  time  a  horse  had  carried  him  from 
sight  Bayard  had  scarcely  expected  to  see  him  back 
again;  he  had  firmly  believed  that  Lytton  would  ride 
directly  to  Yavapai  and  fill  himself  with  whiskey. 
When  he  came  riding  into  the  ranch,  tired,  glad  to  be 
home  once  more,  Bruce  knew  that  the  man  was  not 
wholly  unappreciative,  that  his  earlier  remonstrances  at 
remaining  at  the  Circle  A  had  not  always  been  genu- 
ine. 

"  Mighty  white  of  you,  old  chap,"  he  had  said, 
after  dismounting.  "  Mighty  white  of  you  to  treat  me 
like  this.     Some  day  I'll  pay  you  back." 

"  You'll  pay  me  back  by  gettin'  to  be  good  an'  strong 

187 


1 88  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

an'  goin'  out  an'  bein'  a  man,"  the  rancher  had  an- 
swered, and  Lytton  had  laughed  at  his  seriousness. 

No  intimation  of  his  wife's  nearness  had  been  given 
to  Lytton.  Isolated  as  they  were,  far  off  the  beaten 
path  of  travel,  few  people  ever  stopped  at  the  ranch 
and,  when  stray  visitors  had  dropped  in,  chance  or  Bay- 
ard's diplomacy  had  prevented  their  discovering  the 
other  man's  presence.  Not  once  after  their  argument 
over  the  rights  of  a  man  to  his  wife  had  Ned  referred  to 
Ann  and  in  that  Bruce  found  both  a  conscious  and  an 
unconscious  comfort:  the  first  sort  because  it  hurt  him 
brutally  to  be  reminded  of  the  girl  as  this  man's  mate, 
and  the  other  because  the  fact  that  while  Lytton  had 
only  bitterness  for  Ann  Bayard  could  wholly  justify 
his  own  attention  to  her,  his  own  love. 

Day  after  day  the  progress  continued  uninterrupted, 
Bruce  making  it  a  point  to  have  his  charge  ride  alone, 
unless  Ned  himself  expressed  a  desire  to  go  in  company. 
The  rancher  believed  that  if  the  other  were  ever  to  be 
strong  enough  to  resist  the  temptation  to  return  to  his 
old  haunts  and  ways,  now  was  the  time.  Although  Lyt- 
ton's  attitude  was,  except  at  rare  intervals,  subtly  re- 
sentful, his  passive  acceptance  of  the  conditions  under 
which  he  lived  was  evidence  that  he  saw  the  wisdom 
in  remaining  at  the  ranch  and  those  hours  alone  on 
horseback,  out  of  sight,  away  from  any  influencing  con- 
tact, were  the  first  tests.  Bayard  was  delighted  to  see 
that  his  work  did  not  collapse  the  moment  he  removed 
from  it  his  watchful  support.     And  yet,  while  he  took 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  189 

pride  in  this  accomplishment,  he  went  about  his  daily 
work  with  a  sense  of  depression  constantly  on  him.  It 
was  as  though  some  inevitable  calamity  impended,  as 
though,  almost,  hope  had  been  removed  from  his  fu- 
ture. He  tried  not  to  allow  himself  to  think  of  Ann 
Lytton.  He  knew  that  to  let  his  fancies  and  emotions 
go  unrestrained  for  an  hour  would  rouse  in  his  heart 
a  hatred  so  intense,  so  compelling,  that  he  would  rise 
in  all  his  strength  during  some  of  Lytton's  moods  and 
do  the  man  violence;  or,  if  not  that,  then,  when  talking 
to  her,  he  would  lose  self-control  and  break  his  word 
to  her  and  to  himself  that  not  again  so  long  as  she 
loved  her  husband  would  he  speak  of  his  regard  for 
her. 

But  the  end  of  that  phase  was  approaching.  Within 
a  few  days  Lytton  would  know  that  his  wife  was  in 
the  country,  would  go  to  her,  and  Bayard's  interval  of 
protectorate  over  them  both,  which  at  least  gave  him 
opportunity  to  see  the  woman  he  loved,  would  come  to 
its  conclusion. 

Now,  as  he  worked  on  a  broken  hinge  of  the  corral 
gate  his  heart  was  heavy  and,  finally,  to  force  himself 
to  stop  brooding,  he  broke  into  song: 

"  From  th'  desert  I  come  to  thee 
On  a  stallion  shod  wi  — 

"  No  .  .  .  not  that,"  he  muttered.  "  I'll  not  be 
comin'  ...  on  a  stallion  shod  with  fire,  or  anythin' 
else."     Then  he  began  this  cruder,  livelier  strain: 


igo  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Foot  in  th'  stirrup  an'  hand  on  th'  horn, 
Best  damn  cowboy  ever  was  born, 

"  Coma  ti  yi  youpa  ya,  youpa  ya, 
Coma  ti  yi  — 

"  Dog-gone  bolt  's  too  short,  Abe,"  he  muttered  to 
the  sorrel  who  stood  within  the  enclosure.  Too 
short  — 

"  I  herded  an'  I  hollered  an'  I  done  very  well, 
Till  th'  boss  says,  Boys,  just  let  'em  go  to  hell! 

"  Coma  ti  yi  — 

"  What  do  you  see,  Boy?  " 

As  he  turned  to  go  toward  the  blacksmith  shop,  he 
saw  the  horse  standing  with  head  up  and  every  line  of 
his  body  rigid,  gazing  off  on  the  valley. 

"  You  see  somebody?  "  he  asked,  and  swung  up  on 
the  corral  for  a  better  view. 

Far  out  beyond  and  below  him  a  lazy  wisp  of  dust 
rose  lightly  to  be  trailed  away  by  the  breath  of  warm 
breeze,  and,  after  his  eyes  had  studied  it  a  moment,  he 
discerned  a  moving  dot  that  he  knew  was  horse  and 
rider. 

"  Lytton  didn't  go  that  way,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
dropped  to  the  ground  again.  "  No  use  worryin'  any 
more,  though;  it's  time  somebody  knew  he  was  here; 
they  will  soon,  an'  it  won't  do  any  harm." 

He  swept  the  valley  with  his  gaze  again  and  shook 
his  head.     "  Seems  like  it's   in  shadow  all  the   time 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  191 

now,"  he  muttered,   "  an'   not  a  cloud  in  the  sky!" 
When  he  found  a  bolt  of  proper  length  and  fitted  it 
in  place  the  horse  and  rider  were  appreciably  nearer 
and  he  watched  them  crawl  toward  him  a  moment. 

"  I  went  to  th'  wagon  to  get  my  roll, 

To  come  back  to  Texas,  dad-burn  my  soul ; 
I  went  to  th'  wagon  to  draw  my  roll, 

Th'  boss  said  I  was  nine  dollars  in  th'  hole! 

"  Coma  ti  yi,  youpy,  youpy  ya,  youpy  ya, 
Coma  ti  — " 

He  turned  again  to  look  at  the  approaching  rider  be- 
fore he  went  into  the  stable.  Then,  for  twenty  minutes 
he  was  busy  with  hammer  and  saw,  humming  to  him- 
self, thinking  of  things  quite  other  than  the  work  at 
which  his  hands  were  busy. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  greet  your  visitors?  " 

It  was  Ann  Lytton's  voice  coming  from  the  stable 
doorway,  and  Bayard  straightened  slowly,  turning  awk- 
wardly to  look  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  She  was 
flushed,  flustered,  uncertain  for  the  moment  just  how  to 
comport  herself,  but  he  did  not  notice  for  he  was  far 
off  balance  himself. 

"  Good-mornin',  ma'am,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat 
and  stepping  out  from  the  stall  in  which  he  had  been 
working.     "  What  do  you  want  here?  " 

His  voice  was  pitched  almost  in  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"  I  came  to  see  my  husband,"  she  answered,  and  for 
a  moment  they  stared  hard  at  one  another,  Bayard,  as 


i92  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

though  he  did  not  believe  her,  and  the  woman,  as  if 
conscious  that  he  questioned  the  truth  of  her  reply. 
Also,  as  ii  she  lea  red  he  might  read  in  her  the  zvhole 
truth. 

"  lie  ought  to  be  back  soon,"  the  rancher  said,  re- 
placing  his  hat,  "lie's  oft  for  a  ride.  Won't  you 
come  into  the  house  ? 

They  stepped  outside.  He  saw  that  behind  her 
saddle  a  bundle  was  tied.  He  looked  from  it  to  her 
inquiringly. 

I  have  thought  it  all  over,"  she  said,  as  if  he  had 
challenged  her  with  words,  "  and  I've  made  up  my 
mind  that  my  place,  for  the  time,  anyhow,  is  with  Ned. 
It's  best  for  me  to  be  here;  it's  best  for  Ned  to  know 
and  have  it  over  with.  .  .  .  Have  a  complete  under- 
standing." 

He  looked  away  from  her,  failing  to  mark  the  sig- 
nificance of  her  last  words  or  to  see  the  fresh  determi- 
nation in  her  face. 

It  had  to  come  sometime.  I  expect  now  's  about 
as  likely  a  day  as  any,"  he  said,  gloomily,  and  untied 
the  roll  from  her  saddle.  "  I'll  show  you  around  th' 
house  so  you'll  know  where  things  are," — and  started 
across  toward  the  shade  of  the  ash  tree. 

Ann  walked  beside  him,  wanting  to  speak,  not  know- 
ing what  to  say.  She  found  no  words  at  all,  until  they 
gained  the  kitchen  and  stood  within.  Bayard  placed 
her  bundle  on  the  table. 


THE  WOMAN  ON   HORSEBACK  193 

14  Do  \nij  mean  that  you  won't  be  !. 
tered 

"Well,  that's  th'  best  way,"  he  said,  looking  down 
and  robbing  the  back  of  a  chair  thoughtfully. 

11  I  can't.   .    .    ." 

,k  Yes,  you  can," — divining  what  was  in  her  mind 
and  interrupting.  "  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you  meet  him 
here,  ma'am.  'Twould  offend  me  if  you  went  Away, 
but  I  think,  considerin'  every  thin\  how  vou've  been 
apart  so  long  an'  all,  it'd  be  better  for  me  to  leave  you 
alone.  I've  got  business  in  town  anyhow,"  he 
lied.  M  I'd  have  to  go  in  either  tonight  or  in  th'  morn- 
in\      It's  th'  best  way  all  round." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  during  this,  could  not  trust 
himself  to.  1  Ie  felt  that  to  meet  her  gaze  would  mean 
that  he  would  be  tempted  again  to  declare  his  love  for 
her,  his  hatred  for  her  husband,  because  this  hour  wis 
another  turning  point  tor  them  all.  For  the  safety 
of  Ned  Lytton  to  hold  himself  in  accord  with  his  own 
•  i^i  right,  it  was  wise  for  him  to  be  away  at  the 
meeting  of  husband  and  wife;  not  fear  for  himself  bur 
of  himself  drove  him  from  his  hearth.  He  knew  that 
Ann's  eyes  were  on  him,  steady  and  inquiring,  felt 
somehow  that  she  had  suddenly  become  mistress  i^i  the 
situation.  Heretofore,  he  had  dominated  all  their  in- 
terviews. But  now  that  eminence  was  [Ti)nc  I  le  was 
retreating  from  this  woman  and  not  wholly  in  g 
order,   for  he  could  not  remain  with  her  nor  could  he 


194  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

trust  himself  to   give   a   true   explanation   of  his   de- 
parture: 

To  delay  longer,  to  just  stand  there  and  discuss  the 
very  embarrassing  situation,  would  be  no  relief,  might 
only  lead  to  greater  discomfiture,  he  knew,  so  he  said: 

"  All  th'  things  to  cook  with  are  in  that  cupboard, 
ma'am," —  turning  away  from  her  to  indicate.  "  All 
th'  pots  an'  pans  an'  dishes  are  below  there,  on  those 
shelves.  He  .  .  .  your  husband  knows,  anyhow. 
He  can  show  you  round. 

"  In  here.  .  .  .  This  is  his  room." 

He  paused  when  halfway  across  the  floor,  turned  and 
looked  at  her.     In  her  eye  he  caught  a  troubled  quality. 

"  He's  been  sleepin'  here,"  he  repeated,  walking  on 
and  opening  the  door. 

The  woman  followed  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  But  I've  another  room;  my  room,  in  here," — mov- 
ing to  another  door.  "  This  is  mine,  an'  as  I  won't  be 
here  you  can  use  it  as  you  ...  as  you  want  to." 

Nothing  in  his  tone  or  manner  of  speech  suggested 
anything  but  the  idea  contained  in  his  words,  but  Ann's 
eyes  rested  on  his  profile  with  a  sudden  gratitude,  a 
warmth.  Surprise  came  to  her  a  moment  later  and  she 
exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  how  fine!" 

He  had  thrown  the  door  back  and  stood  aside  for 
her  to  enter.  Light  came  into  the  room  from  three 
windows  and  before  the  gentle  breeze  white  curtains 
billowed  inward.     Navajo  blankets  covered  the  floor. 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  195 

The  bed,  in  one  corner,  was  spread  a  gay  serape  and 
beside  it  was  a  bookcase  with  shelves  well  filled.  In 
the  center  of  the  room  stood  a  table  and  on  it  a  read- 
ing lamp.  About  the  walls  were  pictures,  few  in  num- 
ber but  interesting. 

At  Ann's  exclamation  Bruce  smiled  broadly,  pleased. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  he  said.  "  I  do.  I  thought 
maybe  you  would." 

"  Why,  it's  splendid !  "  she  cried  again.  "  It  doesn't 
look  like  a  room  in  the  house  of  a  bachelor  rancher. 
It  doesn't  look  like  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  and  looked  up  at  him,  puzzled,  question- 
ing so  eloquently  with  her  gaze  that  it  was  unnecessary 
for  him  to  await  the  spoken  query. 

"  Yes,  I  did  it  myself,"  he  said  with  a  flushed  laugh. 
Their  self-consciousness  was  relieved  by  the  change  of 
thought.  "  It's  mine;  all  mine.  You  .  .  .  You're 
the  first  person  to  come  in  here,  ma'am,  except 
Tim.  .  .  .  He  was  my  daddy,  an'  he's  dead.  I  don't 
ask  folks  in  here  'cause  it's  so  much  trouble  to  explain 
to  most  of  'em.  They'd  think  I'm  stuck  up,  with  lace 
curtains  an'  all.  .  .   ." 

He  waved  his  hands  to  include  the  setting. 

"  I  can  live  with  th'  roughest  of  'em  an'  enjoy  it;  I 
can  put  up  with  anything  when  it's  necessary,  but  some- 
how I've  always  wanted  something  different,  some- 
thing that'll  fill  a  place  that  plenty  of  grub  an'  a  hot 
stove  don't  always  satisfy. 

"Them  curtains," — with  a  chuckle — "came  from 


ig6  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

th'  Manzanita  House.  They  were  th'  first  decora- 
tions I  put  up.  I  woke  up  one  mornin'  after  I'd  been 
.  .  .  well,  relieving  my  youth  a  little.  I  was  in  one  of 
th'  hotel  rooms.  'Twas  about  this  time  of  year  an' 
th'  wind  was  soft  an'  gentle,  blowin'  through  th'  win- 
dows like  it  does  now,  an'  them  curtains  looked  so  cool 
an'  clean  an'  homelike  that  I  .  .  .  Well,  I  just  rustled 
three  pair,  ma'am  !  " 

He  laughed  again  and  crossed  the  room  to  free  one 
curtain  that  had  caught  itself  on  a  protruding  hook. 

"  Tim  an'  me  had  a  great  argument,  when  I  brought 
'em  home.  Tim,  he  says  that  if  I  was  goin'  to  have  cur- 
tains, I  ought  to  go  through  with  th'  whole  deal  an' 
have  gilt  rods  to  hang  'em  on.  I  says,  no,  that  was 
goin'  too  far,  gettin'  to  be  too  dudish,  so  I  nailed  'em 
up!" 

He  pointed  to  show  her  the  six-penny  nails  that  held 
them  in  place,  and  Ann  laughed  heartily. 

"  Then,  I  played  a  little  game  that  th'  boys  out  here 
call  Monte.  It's  played  with  cards,  ma'am.  I  played 
with  a  Navajo  I  know — an'  cards  —  an'  he  had  just 
one  kind  of  luck,  awful  bad.  That's  where  these 
blankets  come  from,"- —  smiling  in  recollection. 

All  this  pleased  him;  he  saw  the  humor  of  a  man  of 
his  physique,  his  pursuit,  furnishing  a  room  with  all  the 
pains  of  a  girl. 

"Those  are  good  rugs.  See?  They're  all  black 
an'  gray  an'  brown:  natural  colors.  Red  an'  green  are 
for  tourists. 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  197 

"  I  bought  that  serape  from  a  Mexican  in  Sonora 
when  I  was  down  there  lookin'  around.  That  lamp, 
though,  that's  th'  best  thing  I  got." 

He  leaned  low  to  blow  the  dust  from  its  green  shade 
with  great  pains,  and  Ann  laughed  outright  at  him. 

"  I  never  could  learn  to  dust  proper,  ma'am.  It 
don't  bother  me  so  long's  I  don't  see  it,"  he  confessed. 
"  A  man  who  came  out  here  to  stay  with  us  for  his 
health  —  a  teacher  —  brought  that  lamp ;  when  he 
went  back,  he  left  it  for  me.     I  think  a  lot  of  it." 

"  You  read  by  it?  "  she  asked. 

"Lord,  yes!  Those," — waving  his  hand  toward 
the  books,  and  she  walked  across  to  inspect  them,  Bay- 
ard moving  beside  her.  "  He  left  'em  for  me.  He 
keeps  sendin'  me  more  every  fall.  I  ...  I  learnt  all 
I  know  out  of  them,  an'  from  what  he  told  me.  It 
ain't  much  —  what  I  know.  But  I  got  it  all  myself; 
that  makes  it  seem  more." 

Ann's  throat  tightened  at  that,  but  she  only  leaned 
lower  over  the  shelves.  Dickens  was  there,  and 
Thackeray;  one  or  two  of  Scott  and  a  broken  set  of 
Dumas.  History  and  travel  predominated,  with  a  vol- 
ume of  Kipling  verse  and  a  book  on  mythology  dis- 
covered in  a  cursory  inspection. 

"  I  think  a  lot  of  my  books.  I  like  'em  all.  ...  I 
liked  that  story  'bout  Oliver  Twist  th'  best  of  'em,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  Dickens.  "  Poor  kid!  An'  old 
Bill  Sykes!  Lord,  he  was  a  hellion  —  a  bad  one, 
ma'am," —  correcting    himself    hastily.     "  An'     Miss 


198  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Sharpe  this  man  Thackeray  wrote  about  in  his  book! 
I'd  like  to  know  a  woman  like  her;  she  sure  was  a  slick 
one,  wasn't  she?  She'd  done  well  in  th'  cow  busi- 
ness." 

"  Do  you  like  these?"  she  asked,  indicating  the 
Scott. 

"  Well,  sometimes,"  he  said.  "  I  like  th'  history  in 
'em,  but,  unless  I  got  a  lot  of  time,  like  winter,  I  don't 
read  'em  much.  I  like  '  Ivanhoe  '  pretty  well  any  time, 
but  in  most  of  'em  Walt  sure  rounded  up  a  lot  of 
words!  " 

She  smiled  at  that. 

"  This  is  th'  best  of  'em  all,  though,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing out  Carlyle's  French  Revolution.  "  It  took  me 
all  one  winter  to  get  on  to  th'  hang  of  that  book,  but  I 
stayed  by  her  an'  .  .  .  well,  I'd  rather  read  it  now 
than  anythin'.  Funny  that  a  man  writin'  so  long  ago 
could  say  so  many  things  that  keep  right  on  makin' 
good. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  him,"  he  said  a  moment  later. 
"  I  could  think  up  a  lot  of  questions  to  ask  a  man  like 
that." 

He  stood  running  over  the  worn,  soiled  pages  of  his 
"  French  Revolution  "  lost  in  thought  and  Ann,  stoop- 
ing before  the  shelves,  turned  her  face  to  watch  him 
covertly.  This  was  the  explanation  of  the  Bruce  Bay- 
ard she  knew  and  loved;  she  now  understood.  This 
was  why  he  had  drawn  her  to  him  so  easily.  He  was 
rough  of  manner,  of  speech,  but  behind  it  all  was 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  199 

thought,  intelligence;  not  that  alone,  but  the  intelligence 
of  an  intrinsically  fine  mind.  For  an  unschooled  man 
to  accomplish  what  he  had  accomplished  was  beyond 
her  experience. 

"  I  liked  them,"  he  said,  touching  some  volumes  of 
Owen  Wister.  "  Lord,  he  sure  knows  cowboys  an' 
such.  He  wrote  a  story  about  'n  hombre  called  Jones, 
Specimen  Jones,  that  makes  me  sore  from  laughin' 
every  time  I  read  it.  It's  about  Arizona  an'  naturally 
hits  me. 

"  That's  why  I  like  that  picture.  It's  my  country, 
too."  He  pointed  to  a  print  of  Remington's  "  Fight 
for  The  Water  Hole." 

"  That's  th'  way  it  looks  —  heat  an'  color  an'  dis- 
tance," he  said.  "  But  when  a  thing's  painted  like 
that,  you  get  more  'n  th'  looks.  You  get  taste  an' 
smell  an'  th'  feeling.  I  get  thirsty  an'  hot  an'  desper- 
ate every  time  I  look  at  that  picture  very  long.   .  .  . 

"  This  Cousin  Jack,  Kipling,"  he  resumed,  turning 
back  to  the  books,  "  he  wrote  a  poem  about  what  a  man 
ought  to  be  before  he  considers  himself  a  man  that  says 
all  there  is  to  say  on  th'  subject.  Nothin'  new  in  what 
he  wrote,  but  he's  corraled  all  th'  ideas  anybody's  ever 
thought  about.     It's  fine  — " 

"  But  who  is  that?  "  she  broke  in,  walking  closer  to 
the  photograph  of  a  young  woman,  too  eager  to  see 
the  whole  of  this  room  to  pause  long  over  any  one 
thing. 

He  smiled  in  embarrassment. 


200  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  My  sister,  ma'am." 

"Your  sister!" 

"  Yeah.  You  see,  I  never  had  any  folks.  Nearest 
thing  to  ancestors  I  know  about  was  a  lot  of  bent  steel 
an'  burnin'  railroad  cars.  Old  Tim  picked  me  out  of  a 
wreck  when  I  was  a  baby,  an'  we  never  found  out 
nothin'  about  me."  He  rubbed  the  back  of  one  hand 
on  his  hip.  "  I  ...  It  ain't  nice,  knowin'  you  don't 
belong  to  nobody,  so  I  picked  out  my  family," —  smiling 
again. 

"  I  was  in  Phoenix  once  an'  I  saw  that  lady's  picture 
in  front  of  a  photograph  gallery.  It  was  early  mornin' 
an'  I  was  on  my  way  to  th'  train  comin'  north.  I  busted 
th'  glass  of  th'  show  case  an'  took  it.  I  left  a  five- 
dollar  gold  piece  there  so  th'  photographer  wouldn't 
mind,  an'  I  guess  th'  lady,  if  she  knew,  wouldn't  care  so 
awful  much.  Nobody  ever  seen  her  here  but  Tim  an' 
me.  I  respect  her  a  lot,  like  I  would  my  sister.  You 
expect  she  would  mind,  ma'am?  " 

"  I  think  she  would  be  very  much  pleased,"  Ann  said, 
soberly. 

"  An'  that  up  there's  my  mother,"  he  said,  after  their 
gazes  had  clung  a  moment. 

"  Whistler's  '  Mother  ' !  " 

"  Yes,  he  painted  it;  but  she's  th'  one  I'd  like  to  have 
for  my  mother,  if  I  could  picked  her  out.  She  looks 
like  a  good  mother,  don't  she?  I  thought  so  when  I 
got  that  .  .  .  with  a  San  Francisco  newspaper." 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  201 

Ann  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak  or  to  look  at 
him. 

"  Your  father?  "  she  asked  after  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  had  one.  Tim.  He  was  my  daddy.  He 
did  all  any  father  could  for  me.  No,  ma'am,  I  wouldn't 
pick  out  nobody  to  take  Tim's  place.  He  brought  me 
up.     But  i'f  I  was  to  have  uncles,  I'd  like  them." 

He  moved  across  th'  room  to  where  prints  of  Lincoln 
and  Lee  were  tacked  to  the  wall. 

"  But,  they  were  enemies!  "  Ann  objected. 

"  Sure,  I  know  it.  But  they  both  thought  somethin' 
an'  stuck  by  it  an'  fought  it  out.  Lincoln  believed  one 
way,  Lee  another;  they  both  stood  by  their  principles 
an'  that's  all  that  counts.  Out  here  we  have  cattlemen 
an'  sheepmen.  I'm  in  cattle  an'  lots  of  times  I've  felt 
like  gunnin'  for  th'  fellers  who  were  tryin'  to  sheep  me, 
but  then  I'd  stop  an'  think  that  maybe  there  was  some- 
thin'  to  be  said  on  their  side. 

"  I'd  sure  liked  to  have  men  for  uncles  who  could 
believe  in  a  thing  as  hard  as  they  believed!  " 

A  pause  followed  and  he  looked  about  the  room 
again  calculatingly;  then  started  as  though  he  had  for- 
gotten something. 

"  But  what  I  brought  you  in  here  for  was  to  tell  you 
that  this  is  yours,  to  do  what  you  want  with  .  .  . 
you  .   .   ." 

His  words  brought  them  back  to  the  situation  they 
confronted  and  an  embarrassed  silence  followed. 


202  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  I  don't  feel  right,  driving  you  out  like  this,"  Ann 
protested,  at  length. 

"But  don't  you  understand?  Nobody's  ever  been 
in  here,  but  Tim,  who's  dead,  an'  you.  You're  th'  first 
person  I've  ever  asked  to  stay  in  here.  I'd  like  it  .  .  . 
to  think  you'd  been  in  here  .  .  .  stayin'.  .  .  .  It's  you 
who  're  doin'  th'  favor.  .  .  ." 

He  ended  in  a  lowered  tone  and  was  so  intent,  so 
keen  in  his  desire  that  Ann  looked  on  him  with  a  queer 
little  feeling  of  misgiving.  Every  now  and  then  she 
had  encountered  those  phases  of  him  for  which  she 
could  not  account,  which  made  her  doubt  and,  for  the 
instant,  fear  him.  But,  after  she  had  searched  his  face 
and  found  there  nothing  but  the  sincere  concern  for  her 
welfare,  she  knew  that  his  motive  was  of  the  highest, 
that  he  thought  only  of  her,  and  she  answered, 

"  Why,  I'll  be  glad  to  stay  here,  in  your  room." 

He  turned  and  walked  into  the  kitchen,  swinging  one 
hand. 

"  I'll  be  driftin',"  he  said,  when  she  followed,  forc- 
ing himself  to  a  brusque  manner  which  disarmed  her. 

"  You  ask  Ned  to  water  th'  horses.  I'm  ridin'  th' 
pinto  to  town.      I'll  be  back  to-morrow  sometime." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  started  for  the  door  reso- 
lutely.    Then  halted. 

"  If  anything  should  happen,"  he  began,  attempting 
a  casual  tone.  But  he  could  not  remain  casual,  nor 
could    he    finish    his    sentence.     He    stammered    and 


THE  WOMAN  ON  HORSEBACK  203 

flushed  and  his  gaze  dropped.  "  Nothin'  will  ...  to 
you,"  he  finished. 

With  that  he  was  gone,  leading  her  borrowed  horse 
back  to  town  at  her  request.  From  a  point  half  a  mile 
distant  he  looked  back.  She  was  still  in  the  doorway 
and  when  he  halted  his  pony  he  saw  a  flicker  of  white 
as  she  waved  a  handkerchief  at  him.  He  lifted  his  hat 
in  salute;  then  rode  on,  with  a  heart  that  was  heavy  and 
cold. 

"  Th'  finest  woman  that  God  ever  gave  a  body,"  he 
said,  "  an'  I've  given  her  over  to  th'  only  man  that 
walks  th'  earth  who  wouldn't  try  to  appreciate  her!  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

HER    LORD    AND    MASTER 

Ann  watched  him  go,  an  apprehensive  mood 
coming  upon  her.  He  shacked  off  on  the  pinto  horse 
while  Abe,  left  alone  in  the  corral,  trotted  about  and 
nickered  and  pawed  to  show  his  displeasure  at  being 
left  behind.  For  a  long  time  the  girl  stood  there,  not 
moving,  breathing  slowly;  then  she  looked  about  her, 
turned  and  walked  into  Bruce's  room,  roamed  around, 
examining  the  books,  the  pictures,  the  furniture,  touch- 
ing things  with  her  finger  tips  gently,  lovingly,  hearing 
his  voice  again  as  it  told  her  of  them.  For  her  each 
article  in  that  room  now  held  a  particular  interest. 
She  stared  at  the  photograph  of  the  girl  he  had  se- 
lected as  a  sister,  at  Whistler's  fine,  capped  old  lady, 
opened  the  "  French  Revolution  "  and  riffled  the  leaves 
he  had  thumbed  and  soiled  and  torn,  and  laughed  deep 
in  her  throat  as  she  saw  the  curtains  hanging  irregularly 
from  their  six-penny  nails  .  .  .  laughed,  though  her 
eyes  were  damp. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  kitchen  and  the  woman  became 
rigid  as  she  listened. 

".   .   .   hotter  .   .   ." 

Just  the  one  word  of  the  muttered  sentence  was  dis- 

204 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  205 

tinguishable,  but  she  knew  it  was  not  Bayard's  voice; 
knew,  then,  whose  it  must  be. 

Very  quietly  she  walked  to  the  doorway  of  the  bed- 
room and  stood  there.  Ned  Lytton  had  halted  a  step 
from  the  kitchen  entry  and  was  wiping  his  face  with  a 
black  silk  kerchief.  He  completed  the  operation,  re- 
moved his  hat,  tossed  it  to  a  chair,  unbuttoned  the  neck 
of  his  shirt  .   .  .   and  ceased  all  movements. 

For  each  the  wordless,  soundless  period  that  fol- 
lowed seemed  to  be  an  age.  The  woman  looked  at  the 
man  with  a  slight  feeling  of  giddiness,  a  sensation  that 
was  at  once  relief  and  horror,  for  he  was  as  her  worst 
fears  would  have  it;  his  face,  in  spite  of  his  weeks  of 
good  living,  was  the  color  of  suet,  purple  sacks  under 
the  eyes,  lips  hard  and  cruel,  and  from  chin  to  brow 
were  the  indelible  marks  of  wasting,  of  debauchery. 

"  Ann!  "  he  exclaimed. 

Surprise,  dread,  a  mingling  of  many  emotions  was  in 
the  tone,  and  he  waited  at  high  tension  for  her  to  an- 
swer. His  wife,  a  woman  he  had  not  seen  in  three 
years,  standing  there  before  him  in  the  garb  of  this 
new  country,  beautiful,  desirable,  come  as  though  from 
thin  air !  He  thought  this  might  be  merely  an  halluci- 
nation, that  it  might  be  some  uncanny  creation  of  his 
unstable  mind. 

11  Yes,  Ned;  it  is  I,"  she  answered,  with  a  catch  in  her 
voice. 

On  her  words  he  stepped  quickly  forward,  fear 
gone,  eagerness  about  him.     He  took  her  hands  in  his, 


206  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

fondling  them  nervously,  and  had  she  not  swayed  back 
from  him  to  the  slightest  noticeable  degree,  he  would 
have  followed  out  his  prompting  to  take  her  lips  with 
as  much  matter-of-factness  as  he  had  clutched  her 
hands. 

"Ann,  where  did  you  come  from?"  he  cried. 
"  Why,  I  thought  maybe  you  were  a  ...  a  ghost  or 
something  1     Oh,  I'm  glad  to  see  you!  " 

"  Are  you,  Ned?  " —  almost  plaintively,  stroking  the 
back  of  one  of  his  hands  as  she  looked  into  his  lighted 
eyes,  reading  sadly  the  desire  behind  that  shallow  joy 
at  sight  of  her.      "  Are  you  really  glad?  " 

"Of  course  I'm  glad!  Who  wouldn't  be?  Gad, 
Ann,  you're  in  fine  shape!  " —  stepping  back  from  her, 
still  holding  her  hands,  and  looking  her  up  and  down, 
greedily.     "  Oh,  you're  good  to  look  at!  " 

He  went  close  to  her  again  and  reached  out  one  arm 
quickly  to  slip  it  about  her  waist,  but  she  turned  away 
from  him  quite  casually  and  he  stopped,  disconcerted, 
hurt,  humiliated,  but  covering  the  fact  as  well  as  he 
could. 

An  awkward  fraction  of  a  minute  followed,  which  he 
broke  by  asking: 

"  But  where  did  you  come  from,  Ann?  How  did 
you  get  here?  How  did  you  know?  What  brought 
you?" 

She  smiled  wanly. 

"  One   at  a  time,   Ned.     You  brought  me.     You 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  207 

should  know  that.  I  came  out  here  to  find  you,  to  see 
what  was  happening,  to  help  you  if  I  could." 

She  allowed  him  to  take  her  hands  again  and  looked 
wistfully  into  his  face  as  she  talked.  A  change  came 
into  his  expression  with  her  words  and  his  gaze  shifted 
from  hers  while  a  show  of  petulance  appeared  in  his 
slightly  drawn  brows. 

"  Well,  I've  needed  help  in  one  way,"  he  muttered. 

"  You've  been  very  ill,  I  know." 

"  You  know?  " —  in  surprise. 

"  Yes;  I  have  been  here  through  it  all." 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  tilted  his  head  incredu- 
lously. 

"  Through  it  all!     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I've  been  here  for  a  month." 

"  A  month!  You've  been  here  a  month  and  this  is 
the  first  time  you've  come  to  see  me?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  it  best  to  come  before." 

"  You've  been  here  while  I've  been  passing  through 
hell  itself?  You've  known  about  me,  known  how  I've 
suffered?     Have  you?" 

"  Oh,  Ned,  I  have.  .  .  ." 

"  And  you  didn't  come  to  me  when  I  needed  help 
most!  You've  not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out 
about  me  — " 

"  You're  wrong  there,"  Ann  broke  in  simply.  With 
the  return  of  his  old,  petulant,  irritating  manner,  the 
wistfulness  slipped  from  her  and  a  little  show  of  inde- 


208  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

pendence,  of  resentment,  came  over  the  woman.  "  I 
have  known  about  you;  I've  kept  track  of  you;  I've 
waited  and  prayed  for  the  time  when  it  would  be  best 
for  me  to  see  you.  .  .  ." 

He  folded  his  arms  theatrically  and  swung  one  leg 
over  the  corner  of  the  table.  Ann  stopped  talking  on 
that,  for  his  attitude  was  one  of  open  challenge. 

"  You've  come  out  here  to  spy  on  me !  Isn't  that  it? 
You've  come  to  help  me,  you  said,  and  yet  you  wouldn't 
even  let  me  know  you  were  here?  Isn't  it  the  same 
old  game?     Isn't  it?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Isn't  it  a  fact  that  you've  been  waiting  to  see  what 
I'd  do  when  I  got  well?  I  suppose  you've  come  out 
here  to-day  with  a  prayer-book  and  a  lot  of  soft  words, 
a  lot  of  cant,  to  try  to  reform  me?  "  He  thrust  his 
face  close  to  hers  as  he  asked  the  last. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you're  going  to  greet  me?"  she 
asked.  "  Haven't  you  anything  but  the  same  old  sus- 
picion, the  same  old  denunciation  for  me?  " 

He  looked  away  from  her  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"  How  have  you  known  about  me  when  you  haven't 
been  to  see  me?  "  he  asked,  evasively. 

"  Mr.  Bayard  has  kept  me  informed." 

He  looked  at  her  through  a  moment  of  silence,  and 
she  looked  back  as  steadily,  as  intently  as  he. 

"  Bayard?  "  he  asked.  "  Bayard?  He's  been  tell- 
ing you  .  .   .  about  me?  " 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  209 

"  He's  been  as  kind  to  me  as  he  has  to  you,  Ned," — 
with  a  feeling  of  misgiving  even  as  she  uttered  the 
words.  "  He  has  .  .  .  ridden  to  Yavapai  many  times 
just  to  tell  me  about  you." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  and  she  saw  the  puzzlement 
in  his  face.  He  started  as  though  to  speak,  checked 
himself  and  looked  past  her  into  Bayard's  room. 

"  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  He's  gone  to  town;  he  left  a  few  moments  after  I 
came.     He  asked  me  to  — " 

"  Did  he  show  you  into  that  room?  " 

"  Yes," —  turning  to  look.  "  He  told  me  to  use 
it." 

Her  husband  eyed  her  calculatingly  and  rested  his 
weight  on  the  table  once  more.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  settled  some  important  question  for  himself. 

"  Why  haven't  you  been  out  before,  Ann?  "  he  asked 
her,  eyes  holding  on  her  face  to  detect  its  slightest 
change  of  expression. 

She  felt  herself  flushing  at  that;  her  conscience  again ! 

"  You  were  in  an  awful  condition,  Ned,"  she  forced 
herself  to  say.  "  I  saw  you  in  Yavapai,  the  night  I 
arrived.  I  —  I  helped  Mr.  Bayard  fix  your  arm;  I 
knew  how  ill  you  would  be  when  you  came  to  yourself. 
We  agreed  —  Mr.  Bayard  and  I  —  that  it  would  need- 
lessly excite  you,  if  I  were  to  come  here,  so  I  stayed 
away.  I  stayed  as  long  as  I  could," — with  deadly 
honesty — "  I  had  to  come  to-day." 

"  You  and  Bayard.   .   .   .  You  both  thought  it  best 


2io  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

for  me  to  stay  here  without  knowing  my  wife  was  in 
Arizona?  " 

His  attitude  had  become  that  of  a  cross-examiner. 

"  Yes,  Ned.  You  were  in  fearful  shape.  You 
know  that  for  days  after  you  — " 

"  And  you've  relied  on  him  to  give  you  news  of 
me?" 

He  stood  erect  and  moved  nearer,  watching  her 
face  closely  as  her  eyes  became  less  certain,  her  cheeks 
a  deeper  color. 

"  Yes,  Ned.  Don't  get  worked  up.  It's  been  all 
right.  I'm  sure  the  weeks  you  put  in  here  have 
given.  .   .   ." 

"  Given  what?  "  he  broke  in,  brows  gathering, 
thrusting  out  his  chin,  glaring  at  her  and  drawing  back 
his  lips  to  bare  the  gap  left  by  the  broken  and  missing 
teeth. 

The  woman  recoiled. 

"  Give  what?  "  he  demanded  again,  trembling  from 
knee  to  fingers.  "  To  give  him  a  chance  to  come  and 
see  you,  that's  what  you've  given!  " 

"  Ned  Ly  — " —  crouching,  a  hand  to  one  cheek,  Ann 
backed  into  Bayard's  room  quickly  as  her  husband,  fists 
clenched  and  raised,  lurched  toward  her. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me!  "  he  cried  thickly,  face  dark, 
voice  unnatural.  "  Don't  talk  to  me," —  looking  not 
at  her  eyes  but  at  her  heaving  breast.  "  I  know.  I 
know  now  what  I  should  have  known  weeks  ago!  I 
know  now  why  he's  been  shaving  his  pretty  face  every 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  211 

day,  why  he's  been  dolling  up  every  time  he  left  for 
town,  putting  on  his  gay  scarfs,  changing  his  shirts  like 
a  gentleman,  instead  of  a  dirty  hound  that  would 
steal  a  man's  wife  as  soon  as  he  would  steal  a  neighbor's 
calf!  I  know  why  he's  held  me  here  and  lied  to  me 
and  played  the  hypocrite," —  words  running  together 
under  the  intensity  of  his  raving. 

"  I  see  it  now!  I  see  why  he's  admitted  that  there 
was  a  woman  bothering  him.  I  see  why  he's  tried  to 
ring  in  that  hotel  waitress  to  make  me  think  she  was 
the  one  he  went  to  see.  I  see  it  all;  I  see  what  a  fool 
I've  been,  what  a  lying  pup  Bayard  is  with  all  his 
smug  talk  about  helping  me  !  Helping  me  .  .  .  when 
he's  been  helping  himself  to  my  wife  !  " 

"Ned!" 

"  A  month,  eh?  "  he  went  on.  "  You've  been  here 
a  month,  have  you?  And  he's  known  it;  he's  kept  me 
here,  by  God,  through  fear,  that's  all.  I  confess  it  to 
you !  I'd  have  been  gone  long  ago  but  I  was  afraid  of 
him!  He's  intimidated  me  on  the  pretext  of  doing  it 
for  my  own  good  while  he  could  steal  my  wife  .  .  . 
my  wife  .  .  .  you-u-u.  .  .  ." 

He  advanced  slowly,  reasonless  eyes  on  hers  now, 
and  Ann  backed  swiftly,  putting  the  table  between  them, 
watching  him  with  fear  stamped  on  her  features. 

"Ugh!  The  snake!  The  poison,  lying,  grovel- 
ling-" 

"Ned!" 

The  sharpness  of  her  cry,  the  way  she  straightened 


212  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

and  stamped  her  foot  and  vibrated  with  indignation 
broke  through  his  rage,  even,  and  he  stopped. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying."  Her  voice 
quivered.  "  You're  accusing  the  best  man  friend 
you've  ever  had;  you're  cursing  one  of  the  best  men 
that  ever  walked  ground,  and  you're  doing  it  without 
reason!  " 

"Without  reason,  am  I?"  he  parried,  quieter, 
breathing  hard,  but  controlling  his  voice.  "  It's  with- 
out reason  when  he  lives  with  me  a  month,  seeing  my 
wife  day  after  day,  knowing  I've  not  seen  her  in  years 
and  then  never  breathing  a  word  about  it?  It's  with- 
out reason  when  he  opens  this  room  to  you  ...  a 
room  he's  never  let  me  look  into,  and  tells  you  to  use 
it?  It's  no  reason  when  he  runs  away  to  town  rather 
than  face  me  here  in  your  presence?  Can  you  argue 
against  that? 

"  And  it's  without  reason  when  you  stand  there 
flushed  to  your  hair,  you  guilty  woman  ?  " 

He  thumped  the  table  with  his  fist.  "  You  guilty 
woman,"  he  repeated,  just  above  a  whisper.  "  You 
guilty  —  My  wife,  conspiring  with  your  lover  while  he 
keeps  me  here  by  force,  by  brute  force.  Can  you  argue 
against  that  .  .  .  against  that?" 

It  was  the  great  moment  of  Ann  Lytton's  life.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  inner  conflict  was  causing  conges- 
tion in  her  chest,  stilling  her  heart,  clogging  her  breath- 
ing, making  her  blind  and  powerless  to  move  or  speak 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  213 

or  think.  It  was  the  last  struggle  against  her  old  man- 
ner of  thought,  against  the  old  Ann,  the  strangling  for 
once  and  for  all  that  narrow  conscience,  the  wiping  out 
of  that  false  conception  of  morality,  for  she  emerged 
from  her  moment  of  doubt,  of  torment,  a  beautiful, 
brave  creature.  Her  great  sacrifice  had  been  offered; 
it  had  been  repulsed  with  contempt  and  now  she  stood 
free,  ready  to  fight  for  her  spiritual  honor,  her  self- 
respect,  in  the  face  of  a  world's  disapproval,  if  that 
should  become  necessary. 

"  Yes,  I  can  argue  against  that,"  she  cried,  closing 
her  eyes  and  smiling  in  fine  confidence.  "  I  can,  Ned 
Lytton.  I  can,  because  he  is  my  lover,  because  the  love 
he  bears  for  me  is  pure,  is  good,  is  true  holiness !  " 

She  leaned  toward  him  across  the  table,  still  smiling 
and  letting  her  voice  drop  to  its  normal  tone,  yet  losing 
none  of  its  triumphant  resonance. 

"  And  you  can  say  that,"  he  jeered,  "  after  he's  been 
.  .  .  after  you've  been  letting  him  keep  you  a  month !  " 

"  Oh,  you  can't  hurt  me  with  your  insults,  Ned,  for 
they  won't  go  home.  You  know  that  statement  isn't 
true ;  you  know  me  too  well  for  that.  I'm  your  wife  by 
law,  Ned,  but  beyond  that  I'm  as  free  as  I  was  five 
years  ago,  before  I  ever  saw  you.  Emancipating  my- 
self wasn't  easy.  I  came  out  here  hampered  by  tradi- 
tion and  terms  and  prejudice,  but  I've  learned  the  truth 
from  this  country,  these  people,  from  .  .  .  you.  I've 
learned  that  without  love,  without  sympathy,  without 


214  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

understanding  or  the  effort,  the  desire,  to  understand, 
no  marriage  is  a  marriage;  that  without  them  it  is  only 
ugly,  hideous. 

"  I've  had  to  fight  it  all  out  and  think  it  all  out  for 
myself.  Circumstances  and  people  have  helped  me 
make  my  decision.  I  owed  you  something,  I  still 
thought,  and  I  came  here  to-day  to  fulfill  my  duty,  to 
give  you  another  chance.  If  you  had  met  me  with  even 
friendliness,  I'd  have  shut  my  eyes,  my  ears,  my  heart 
to  Bruce  Bayard  in  spite  of  all  he  means  to  me.  I'd 
have  gone  with  you,  thinking  that  I  might  take  up  the 
work  of  regeneration  where  he  left  off  and  give  my  life 
to  making  a  man  of  you,  foregoing  anything  greater, 
better  for  myself,  in  the  hope  that  some  day,  some  time 
you  and  I  might  approach  halfway  to  happiness. 

"  But  what  did  you  do;  what  did  I  find?  In  the 
first  moments  hate  of  me  came  into  your  face; 
you  jeered  at  me  for  coming,  mocked  me.  That's  what 
happened.  Then  you  suspect  me,  suspect  Bayard,  who 
has  kept  you  alive,  who  has  given  you  another  chance 
at  everything  .  .  .  including  me." 

"  Suspect  him?  Of  course  I  suspect  him!  You've 
admitted  your  guilt,  you  damned — " 

"  Don't  go  on  that  way,  Ned.  It's  only  a  waste  of 
time.  I  told  you  what  would  have  happened,  if  you 
had  greeted  me  in  another  way.  You've  had  your 
chance  .  .  .  you've  had  your  thousand  chances  in  these 
last  five  years.  It's  all  over  now.  It's  over  between 
us,  Ned.     It's  been  a  bitter,  dreary  failure  and  the 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  215 

sooner  we  end  it  all,  the  better.  Don't  think  I'm  going 
to  transgress  what  you  call  morality,"  she  pleaded,  smil- 
ing weakly.  "  You  deserted  me,  Ned,  after  you'd 
abused  me.  You've  refused  to  support  me,  you've 
been  unfaithful  in  every  way.  I  don't  think  the  law 
that  made  me  your  wife  will  refuse  to  release  me 
now — " 

"  You're  forgetting  something,"  he  broke  in,  rally- 
ing his  assurance  with  an  effort.  "  You're  forgetting 
that  while  you  were  conspiring  to  keep  me  here,  your 
lover,  Bruce  Bayard," —  drawling  the  words  — "  was 
meeting  you  secretly.  What  do  you  think  your  law 
will  say  to  that?  " 

"  I'll  trust  to  it,  Ned,"  she  answered,  in  splendid  com- 
posure. "  I  will  trust  to  other  men  to  judge  between 
us—" 

"Then,  I  won't!"  he  screamed,  stepping  quickly 
around  the  table,  grasping  for  her  arm.  She  retreated 
quickly  and  he  lunged  for  her  again  and  again  missed. 

Then,  with  a  choking  oath,  he  threw  the  table  aside 
and  the  lamp  went  crashing  to  the  floor. 

"  Then,  I  won't,  damn  you !  You're  my  wife,  to  do 
as  I  please  with;  the  law  gave  you  to  me,  and  it  hasn't 
taken  you  from  me  yet !  " 

He  advanced  menacingly  toward  her  as  she  backed 
into  a  corner,  paling  with  actual  fear  now;  his  elbows 
stuck  stiffly  out  from  his  sides,  his  hands  were  clenched 
at  his  hips,  face  thrust  forward,  feet  carrying  him  to 
her  with  slow  uncertainty. 


216  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Ned  — "  Her  voice  quavered.  "  Ned,  what  are 
you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Maybe  I'll  .  .  .  strangle  you!  "  he  said. 

She  looked  quickly  from  side  to  side  and  one  hand 
clutched  at  her  breast  convulsively,  clutched  the  cloth 
.  .  .  and  something  that  was  resting  within  her  waist. 
She  started  and  with  a  quick  movement  unbuttoned  the 
garment  at  her  bosom,  reached  in  and  drew  out  an 
automatic  pistol. 

"  Ned,  don't  force  me !  "  she  said,  slowly,  voice  un- 
steady. 

The  man  halted,  hesitated,  backed  away,  both  hands 
half  raised. 

"  Ann,  you  wouldn't  shoot  me !  "  he  whispered. 

"  You  said  .  .  .  you'd  strangle  me,  Ned," —  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  for  support,  because  weakness  had 
swept  over  her. 

Lytton  drew  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  He  trembled 
visibly. 

"  But  ...  I  was  mad,  Ann,"  he  stammered.  "  I 
was  crazy;  I  wouldn't.   .  .   ." 

Her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides  and  she  turned 
her  face  from  him,  shutting  her  eyes  and  frowning  at 
the  helplessness  that  came  over  her  with  the  excitement 
and  the  fear  of  a  physical  encounter.  She  could  brave 
any  moral  clash,  but  her  body  was  a  woman's  body,  her 
strength  a  woman's  strength,  and  now,  when  she  faced 
disaster,  her  muscles  failed  her. 

Ned   comprehended.     He   stepped   quickly  to   her 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  217 

side,  reached  to  the  hand  that  held  the  weapon,  fast- 
ened on  it  and  with  a  wrench,  jerked  it  free  from  her 
limp  grasp. 

"You  would,  would  you?"  he  muttered,  his  old 
malevolence  returning  with  assurance  that  the  woman 
could  no  longer  defend  herself.  "  This!  Where  did 
you  get  it?  " —  surveying  the  weapon. 

"  It's  Bayard's." 

"  He  gave  it  to  you  to  use  on  me?  " — with  a  short 
laugh. 

The  woman  shook  her  head  wearily. 

"  You  refuse  to  understand  anything,"  she  re- 
sponded. "  He  gave  it  to  me  to  protect  you  from  him- 
self." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  revolving  that  assertion 
quickly  in  his  mind,  feeling  for  the  first  time  that  his 
command  over  the  situation  was  good  only  so  long  as 
they  were  alone.  Before  his  suddenly  rising  fear  of 
Bruce  Bayard  his  bitterness  retreated. 

"  Well,  we'll  quit  this  place,"  he  said  with  a  swag- 
ger. "  We'll  clear  out,  you  and  I.  .  .  .  I've  had 
enough  of  this  damned  treachery;  trying  to  steal  you, 
my  wife.  I  might  have  known.  I  told  him  his  foot 
would  slip !  " 

Ann  scarcely  heard.  She  was  possessed  by  a  queer 
lethargy.  She  wanted  to  rest,  to  be  quiet,  to  be  left 
alone,  yet  she  knew  that  much  remained  to  be  endured. 
She  had  never  rebelled  before;  she  had  always  com- 
promised and  she  felt  that  after  her  great  demonstra- 


218  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

tion  of  self-sufficiency  nothing  could  matter  a  great  deal. 
Ned  had  said  that  they  would  quit  this  place.  She 
had  no  idea  of  resisting,  of  even  arguing.  It  was 
easier  to  go,  to  delay  a  further  break,  for  their  journey 
would  not  be  far,  she  felt,  nor  would  she  be  with  her 
husband  long.  Bayard  would  come  somehow;  he  had 
come  when  she  was  in  danger  before,  and  now  that 
which  menaced  her  was  of  much  less  consequence. 
Why  fear? 

She  stooped  to  pick  up  a  book  that  had  been  thrown 
to  the  floor  when  the  table  overturned. 

"  Leave  that  alone !  "  he  ordered. 

She  straightened  mechanically,  the  listlessness  that 
was  upon  her  making  it  far  easier  to  obey  than  to  sum- 
mon the  show  of  strength  necessary  to  resist. 

"  We'll  quit  this  place,"  Ned  repeated  again. 
"  And  you'll  go  with  me  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  face  the  doorway.  The  bent  reading 
lamp  lay  at  his  feet,  shade  and  chimney  wrecked,  oil 
gurgling  from  it.  He  kicked  the  thing  viciously,  send- 
ing it  crashing  against  the  wall. 

"The  damned  snake!"  he  muttered.  "He 
brought  you  in  here,  did  he?  Into  this  place.  .  .  . 
Bah!" 

He  seized  a  volume  from  the  bookcase  and  flung  it  at 
the  ruined  lamp. 

"Ned,  don't!"  she  pleaded. 

"  You  keep  quiet;  you'll  have  enough  to  think  about 
coming  with  me.     Come  on,  now!  " 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  219 

Mechanically  she  responded  and  with  unreal,  heavy 
movements  put  on  her  hat  as  he  told  her  to  do,  crossed 
the  kitchen  floor  and  emerged  into  the  afternoon  sun- 
light. Her  husband's  horse,  still  saddled,  stood  in  the 
shade  of  the  ash  tree. 

"  He's  left  only  that  damn  stallion,"  she  heard  Ned 
say.     "  Well,  we'll  take  him." 

"What  for,  Ned?"  she  asked  dully,  walking  after 
him  as  he  strode  toward  the  corral  and  catching  his 
sleeve,  shaking  it  for  his  attention.  "  Why  are  you 
taking  him?  " 

"  To  take  you  away  on,"  he  snapped. 

"  That's  stealing." 

"  He  didn't  think  of  that  when  he  tried  to  steal  my 
wife;  I'll  steal  two  of  his  horses  for  a  while  .  .  .  just 
like  he  had  you  .   .  .   for  a  while." 

Her  strength  of  wit  had  been  spent  in  the  furious 
scene  within  the  house  and  she  attempted  no  answer, 
just  stood  outside  while  Lytton  entered  the  corral, 
bridled  the  curious  stallion  and  turned  to  lead  him  out. 
Abe  would  not  move.  He  would  not  even  turn  about 
and  the  man's  strength  was  not  sufficient  to  do  more 
than  pull  his  head  around. 

"  Come  along,  you " 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  swung  it  to  strike  the  horse's 
nose  sharply,  but  Abe  only  threw  up  his  head  and 
blinked  rapidly.  The  ears  were  flat  and  he  switched 
his  tail  when  Lytton  again  tried  to  drag  him  out.  He 
would  not  respond;  just  braced  backward  and  resisted. 


220  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Ann  forced  her  mind  to  function  with  some  degree  of 
alertness. 

"  Let  me  take  him,  Ned,"  she  said,  white  faced  and 
quiet.     "  I  can't  see  you  abuse  him." 

She  took  the  reins  from  her  husband  who  relin- 
quished his  grip  on  them  reluctantly;  then  she  spoke  a 
low  word  to  the  sorrel.  He  sniffed  her  garments  and 
moved  his  nostrils  in  silent  token  of  recognition.  This 
was  the  woman  Bayard  had  put  on  his  back,  the  only 
person  besides  his  master  who  had  ever  straddled  him, 
so  it  must  be  all  right.  He  turned  and  followed  her 
from  the  corral  while  Lytton  swore  under  his  breath. 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  woman  mounted  on  the  stal- 
lion, they  rode  through  the  gate.  Ann  was  silent, 
scarcely  comprehending  what  happened. 

They  did  not  turn  to  the  left  and  take  the  road  to- 
ward Yavapai;  instead,  Ned  followed  a  course  that 
held  straight  eastward,  gradually  taking  them  away 
from  the  wagon  tracks,  out  into  the  great  expanse  of 
valley. 

11  Where  are  you  taking  me,  Ned?  "  Ann  finally  ral- 
lied her  wits  enough  to  ask. 

"  Back  to  my  castle!  "  he  mocked.  "  Back  to  the 
mine,  where  nobody'll  come  to  get  you !  " 

On  that,  Bayard's  unexplained  warning  occurred  to 
the  girl  and  she  felt  her  heart  leap. 

"  Not  that!  "  she  said,  dully.  "  Oh,  Ned,  not  that. 
Something  awful  .  .  .  will  happen  if  you  go  back 
there." 


HER  LORD  AND  MASTER  221 

He  looked  at  her,  suspecting  that  this  was  a  ruse. 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"  I  was  warned  never  to  let  you  go  back  there." 

"  Did  Bayard  warn  you?  " —  leaning  low  in  his  sad- 
dle that  he  might  see  her  face  better.  She  answered 
with  a  nod.  "  And  why  didn't  he  want  me  to  go  back 
there?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Ned.  But  —  Take  my  word,  I  beg 
of  you!" 

He  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  shook  his  fist  at  her. 

"  He  steals  my  wife  and  tries  to  frighten  me  away 
from  my  property,  does  he?  What's  his  interest  in 
the  Sunset  mine?  Do  you  know?  No?  Well,  we'll 
find  out  by  to-morrow  night,  damn  him!  " 

He  slapped  his  coat  pocket  where  the  automatic 
rested  and  lifted  his  quirt  to  cut  the  hindquarters  of  the 
slow  moving  stallion. 

It  was  late  night  when  they  halted  at  a  ranch,  and 
the  house  was  in  darkness. 

"  We'll  put  up  here,"  Ned  growled.  "  We'll  make 
on  before  daylight  ...  if  we  can  get  this  damned 
horse  to  move !  " 

He  drew  back  a  fist  as  though  he  would  strike  the 
stallion,  for  the  sorrel  had  retarded  them,  insisting  on 
turning  and  trying  to  start  back  toward  the  Circle  A 
ranch,  refusing  to  increase  his  pace  beyond  a  crawling 
walk,  held  to  that  only  by  Ann's  coaxing,  for  she  knew 
that  if  she  gave  the  animal  his  head  and  let  him  turn 


222  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

back,  her  husband  would  be  angered  to  a  point  where  he 
might  abuse  the  beast. 

She  feared  no  special  thing  now.  She  wanted  to 
reach  some  destination,  some  place  where  she  could  rest 
and  think.  This  being  led  away  seemed  as  only  some 
process  of  transition;  it  was  unpleasant,  but  great 
happiness  was  not  far  off.     Of  that  she  was  certain. 

But  she  could  not  let  Ned  go  on  to  his  mine.  Dan- 
ger of  some  sort  waited  there  and  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  allow  him  to  walk  into  it.  She  had  planned 
while  they  rode  that  afternoon  just  how  she  would 
make  the  first  move  to  prevent  his  reaching  the  Sunset 
and  as  her  husband  hammered  on  the  door  of  the  house 
to  rouse  the  occupants  she  drew  a  pin  from  her  hat, 
shoved  herself  back  in  the  saddle,  and,  while  he  was 
parleying  with  the  roused  rancher,  scratched  swiftly  and 
nervously  on  the  smooth  leather. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    MESSAGE   ON   THE    SADDLE 

The  hours  he  spent  in  Yavapai  that  night  were 
memorable  ones  for  Bruce  Bayard.  He  rode  the  dis- 
tance to  town  at  a  slow  walk  and  arrived  after  the 
sun  had  set.  He  had  no  appetite  for  food  but,  never- 
theless, after  washing  in  the  kitchen,  he  went  into  the 
hotel  dining  room  and  talked  absently  to  Nora. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  mention  what  had  hap- 
pened that  afternoon  to  the  girl.  That  had  been  a 
matter  too  purely  personal  to  permit  its  discussion  with 
another.  While  he  talked  to  her,  his  mind  was  wholly 
occupied  with  thoughts  other  than  those  of  which  he 
spoke  and  he  did  not  see  that  the  waitress  was  studying 
him  carefully,  reading  what  was  written  on  his  face. 
Nora  knew  that  Ann  was  gone;  she  knew  that  she  had 
taken  with  her  a  new  conviction,  a  new  courage,  and 
the  fact  that  Bayard  had  left  her  at  his  ranch,  probably 
with  Ned  Lytton,  puzzled  the  girl. 

Bruce  was  not  certain  that  he  had  acted  wisely. 
Many  circumstances  might  arise  in  which  his  pres- 
ence at  the  ranch  could  be  a  determining  factor.  At 
times  he  wondered  vaguely  if  Lytton  might  not  attempt 
to  do  his  wife  violence,  but  always  he  comforted  him- 

22Z 


224  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

self  by  assurance  of  her  strength  of  character,  of  her 
moral  fiber,  contrasting  it  with  Ned's  vacillating  nature. 

"  She'd  take  care  of  herself  anywhere,"  he  thought 
time  after  time. 

When  he  had  gone  through  with  the  formal  routine 
of  feeding  himself  he  went  out  to  stroll  about.  He 
watched  the  train  arrive  and  depart,  he  talked  absently 
with  an  Indian  he  knew  and  jested  with  the  red  man's 
squaw.  He  bought  a  Los  Angeles  paper  and  could  not 
center  his  mind  on  a  line  of  its  printed  pages.  He 
walked  aimlessly,  finally  entering  the  saloon  where  a 
dozen  were  congregated. 

"  That  piano  of  yours  has  got  powerful  lungs,  ain't 
it?  "  he  asked  the  bartender,  wincing,  as  the  mechanical 
instrument  banged  out  its  measure. 

"  This  here  beer's  so  hot  it  tastes  like  medicine,"  he 
complained,  putting  down  his  glass  after  his  first  swal- 
low, and  picking  up  the  bottle  to  look  at  it  with  a  wry 
face. 

"  It's  right  off  th'  ice,"  the  other  assured. 

"  You  can  have  th'  rest  of  it  for  th'  deservin'  poor," 
he  said  and  strode  out,  while  the  others  laughed  after 
him. 

Up  and  down  the  street,  into  the  general  store  to  ex- 
change absent-minded  pleasantries  with  the  proprietor's 
wife,  across  to  the  hotel  where  he  tried  to  sit  quietly  in 
a  chair,  back  to  the  saloon;  up  and  down,  up  and  down. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  Manzanita  House  was  a 
corral  and  in  it  a  score  of  young  horses  were  being  held 


Down  the  main  street  of  Yavapai 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  225 

to  await  shipment.  In  the  course  of  his  ambling, 
Bruce  came  to  this  bunch  of  animals  and  leaned  against 
the  bars,  poking  a  hand  through  and  snapping  his 
thumb  encouragingly  as  the  ponies  crowded  against  the 
far  side  and  eyed  him  with  suspicion.  He  talked  to 
them  a  time,  then  climbed  the  fence  and  perched  on 
the  top  pole,  snapping  his  fingers  and  making  coaxing 
sounds  in  futile  effort  to  tempt  the  horses  to  come  to 
him;  and  all  the  time  his  mind  was  back  at  the  Circle 
A,  wondering  what  had  transpired  under  his  roof,  in 
his  room,  that  day. 

Nora's  voice  startled  him  when  it  sounded  so  close 
behind,  for  he  had  not  heard  her  approach. 

"Why,  you  scart  me  bad!  "  he  said,  with  a  laugh, 
letting  himself  down  beside  her.  "  What  you  doin'  out 
to-night?  " 

He  pinched  her  cheek  with  his  old  familiarity,  but 
under  the  duress  of  his  own  thinking  did  not  notice  that 
she  failed  to  respond  in  any  way  to  his  pretended  mood. 

"  I  thought  I'd  like  to  walk  a  little  an'  get  th'  air," 
she  said.     "  An'  .  .  .  tell  you  that  I'm  goin'  away." 

"  Away,  Nora?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  goin'  to  Prescott,  Bruce." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  scratched  his  ear  and  moved  be- 
side her  as  she  started  walking  along  the  road,  now  a 
dim  tape  under  the  mountain  stars. 

"  Why,  Nora,  I  thought  you  was  a  fixture  here; 
what'll  we  do  without  you?" 

He  did  not  know  how  that  hurt  her,  how  the  thought 


226  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

that  he  could  do  without  her  hung  about  her  heart  like 
a  sodden  weight.  She  covered  it  well,  holding  her 
voice  steady,  restraining  the  discouragement  that 
wanted  to  break  into  words,  and  the  night  kept  secret 
with  her  the  pallor  of  her  face. 

"  I  guess  you'll  get  along,  Bruce;  you  done  it  before 
I  come  an'  I  guess  th'  town'll  keep  on  prosperin'  after  I 
leave.     I  ...  I  got  a  chance  to  go  into  business." 

"  Why,  that's  fine,  Sister." 

"  A  lunch  counter  that  I  can  get  for  two  hundred; 
I've  saved  more  'n  that  since  .  .  .  since  I  come  here. 
That'll  be  better  than  workin'  for  somebody  else  an'  I 
figure  I'll  make  as  much  and  maybe  considerable  more." 

"  That's  fine !  "  he  repeated.     "  Fine,  Nora  !  " 

In  spite  of  the  complexity  of  his  thinking  he  found  an 
interval  of  respite  and  was  truly  glad  for  her. 

"  I  ...  I  wanted  to  tell  you  before  anybody  else 
knew,  'cause  I  .  .  .  Well,  you  made  it  possible.  If 
you  hadn't  done  this  for  me  .  .  .  this  here  in  Yavapai 
.  .  .  I'd  never  been  .  .  ." 

He  laughed  at  her. 

"  Oh,  yes  you  would,  Nora.  You  had  it  in  you.  If 
I  hadn't  happened  along  some  one  else  would.  What 
we're  goin'  to  be,  we're  goin'  to  be,  I  figure.  I  was 
only  a  lucky  chance." 

"  Lucky,"  she  repeated.  "  Lucky!  God,  Bruce, 
lucky  for  me!" 

"  Naw,  lucky  for  me,  Nora.  Why,  don't  you  know 
that  every  man  likes  to  have  some  woman  dependin' 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  227 

on  him  ?  It's  in  us  to  want  some  female  woman  lookin' 
to  us  for  protection  an'  help.  It  tickled  me  to  death  to 
think  I  was  helpin'  you,  when,  all  the  time,  I  knew 
down  in  my  heart,  I  was  only  an  accident." 

"  You  can  say  that,  Bruce,  but  you  can't  make  me 
believe  it." 

They  walked  far,  talking  of  the  past,  of  her  future, 
but  not  once  did  the  conversation  touch  on  Ann  Lytton. 
Bayard  kept  away  from  it  because  of  that  privacy  with 
which  he  had  come  to  look  on  the  affair,  and  the  girl 
knew  that  his  presence  there  in  town  after  Ann's  de- 
parture for  the  ranch  could  mean  only  that  a  crisis  had 
been  reached.  With  her  woman's  heart,  her  intuition, 
she  was  confident  of  what  the  outcome  would  be.  And 
though  she  had  given  her  all  to  help  bring  it  about,  she 
knew  that  the  sound  of  it  in  speech  would  precipitate 
that  self-revelation  which  she  had  avoided  so  long,  at 
such  cost. 

"  I'll  see  you  again,"  she  said,  when  they  stood  be- 
fore the  hotel  and  she  was  ready  to  enter  for  the  night. 
"  I'll  see  you  again  before  I  go,  Bruce.  And  —  I  .  .  . 
thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you.  .  .   ." 

She  gripped  his  hand  convulsively  and  lowered  her 
head;  then  turned  and  ran  quickly  up  the  steps,  for  she 
would  not  let  him  see  the  emotion,  nor  let  him  hear  un- 
certain words  form  on  her  lips. 

In  her  last  speech  with  him,  Nora  had  lied;  she  had 
lied  because  she  knew  that  to  tell  him  she  had  packed 
her  trunk  and  would  leave  on  the  morning  train  would 


228  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

bring  thanks  from  him  for  what  she  had  done  for  Ann 
Lytton;  and  Nora  could  not  have  stood  this.  From 
the  man  downstairs  she  had  learned  kindness,  had 
learned  that  not  all  mistakes  are  sins,  had  learned  that 
there  is  a  judgment  above  that  which  denounces  or  com- 
mends by  rule  of  thumb.  He  had  set  in  her  heart  a  de- 
sire to  be  possessed  by  him,  had  fed  it  unconsciously, 
had  led  her  on  and  on  to  dream  and  plan;  then,  had  un- 
wittingly wrecked  it.  But  he  had  made  her  too  big, 
too  fine,  too  gentle,  to  let  jealousy  control  her  for 
long.  She  had  weakened  just  once,  and  that  had 
served  to  set  in  Nora's  heart  a  new  resolve,  a  finer 
purpose  than  had  ever  found  a  place  there  before. 
And,  as  she  stumbled  up  the  narrow  stairway,  the  tears 
scalding  her  cheeks,  her  soul  was  glad,  was  light,  was 
happy,  for  she  knew  true  greatness. 

Bayard  roamed  until  after  midnight;  then  went  to 
his  room  in  the  hotel  and  slept  brokenly  until  dawn. 
In  those  hours  he  chilled  with  fear  and  experienced 
flushes  of  temper,  but  behind  it  all  he  was  resigned,  will- 
ing to  wait.  He  had  done  his  all,  he  had  held  himself 
strictly  within  the  bounds  of  justice  as  he  conceived 
it,  and  beyond  that  he  could  do  no  more. 

The  east  had  only  commenced  to  silver  when  he  rode 
out  of  town  at  a  brisk  gallop.  He  did  not  realize  what 
going  back  to  his  ranch  meant  until  he  was  actually  on 
his  way  and  then  with  every  length  of  the  road  traveled, 
his  apprehensions  rose.  It  was  no  business  of  his  he 
argued,  what  had  transpired  the  day  before;  it  was 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  229 

Ann's  affair  .  .  .  and  her  husband's.  Yet,  if  he  had 
left  her  alone,  unprotected,  and  Lytton  had  done  her 
harm,  he  knew  that  he  could  never  escape  reproaching 
himself,  and  his  suffering  would  be  in  proportion  to 
hers.  Then,  of  the  many,  there  was  another  disturbing 
possibility.  Perhaps  a  complete  reconciliation  had 
followed.  Perhaps  he  would  ride  into  his  dooryard  to 
find  Ann  Lytton  cooking  breakfast  for  her  husband, 
smiling  and  happy,  refusing  to  meet  his  gaze,  ashamed 
of  what  had  been  between  them. 

He  prodded  his  pony  to  greater  speed  with  that 
thought. 

The  sun  was  not  yet  up  when  he  pulled  his  swift- 
breathing  horse  to  a  stop.  The  outer  gate  stood  open, 
and,  as  he  rode  through,  his  face  clouded  slightly  with 
annoyance  over  the  unusual  occurrence,  but  when  he 
looked  to  the  horse  corral  and  saw  that  it,  too,  was 
open,  and  empty,  that  Abe  was  gone,  his  annoyance  be- 
came fear.  He  spurred  the  tired  pony  across  the 
yard  and  flung  off  before  the  house  with  eyes  on  that 
portion  of  the  kitchen  which  was  visible  through  the 
door.     Then,  stopped,  stood  still,  and  listened. 

Not  a  sound  except  the  breathing  of  his  horse.  The 
breeze  had  not  yet  come  up,  no  animal  life  was  moving. 
An  uncanny  sense  of  desertion  was  upon  the  place  and 
for  a  moment  Bayard  knew  real  panic.  What  if  some 
violence.   .   .  . 

"Lytton!  "  he  called,  cutting  his  half-formed,  hor- 
rible thought  short,  and  stepped  into  the  room. 


230  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

No  answer  greeted  him  and,  after  listening  a  mo- 
ment, he  again  shouted.  Then  walked  swiftly  to  the 
room  where  Ned  Lytton  had  lived  through  those 
weeks.  He  knocked,  waited,  flung  open  the  door  and 
grunted  at  the  emptiness  which  he  found.  One  more 
room  remained  to  be  inspected  —  his  room  —  and  he 
turned  to  the  door  which  was  almost  closed.  He 
rapped  lightly  on  the  casing;  louder,  called  for  Lytton, 
grasped  the  knob  and  entered. 

The  overturned  table,  broken  lamp,  the  spreading 
stain  of  its  oil,  the  rumpled  rugs  yielded  their  mute  sug- 
gestion, and  he  moved  slowly  about,  eyeing  them, 
searching  for  other  evidence,  searching  for  something 
more  than  the  fact  that  a  struggle  had  taken  place, 
hoping  to  find  it,  fearing  to  know. 

He  stopped  suddenly,  holding  his  head  to  one  side  as 
though  listening  to  catch  a  distant  sound. 

"  Both  saddle  horses  gone  .  .  .  they're  gone,"  he 
muttered  to  himself  and  started  from  the  room  on  a 
run. 

He  inspected  the  saddle  rack  under  his  wagonshed 
and  saw  that  the  third  saddle  was  missing,  and  then, 
with  expert  eyes,  studied  the  ground  for  evidence. 

A  trail,  barely  discernible  in  the  multitude  of  hoof- 
marks,  led  through  to  the  outer  gate,  crossed  the  road 
and  struck  straight  east  across  the  valley. 

"  That's  Abe,"  he  said  excitedly  to  himself.  "  That 
was  made  late  yesterday." 

He  stood  erect  and  looked  into  the  far  reaches  of 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  231 

the  lower  valley  where  the  wreaths  of  mists  in  the  hol- 
lows were  turning  to  silver  and  those  without  shelter 
becoming  dispelled  as  the  sun  spread  its  first  warmth 
over  the  country. 

"  You've  stolen  my  horse !  "  he  said  aloud,  and 
evenly,  as  though  he  were  dispassionately  charging 
some  one  before  him  with  the  misdeed.  "  You  stole 
my  horse,  but  she  .  .  .  was  your  woman!  " 

He  straightened  and  lifted  his  head,  moving  it 
quickly  from  side  to  side  as  he  strove  to  identify  a  mov- 
ing object  far  below  him  that  had  risen  suddenly  into 
sight  on  one  of  the  valley  swells  and  disappeared  again 
in  a  wash.  It  was  a  horse,  he  knew,  but  whether  it 
was  a  roamer  of  the  range  or  a  beast  bearing  a  rider,  he 
could  not  tell.  He  waited  anxiously  for  its  reappear- 
ance, again  hoping  and  fearing. 

uHuh!  You're  carryin'  nobody,"  he  muttered 
aloud  as  the  speck  again  came  into  view.  "  An'  you 
sure  are  goin'  some  particular  place !  " 

The  animal  was  too  far  distant  to  be  readily  identi- 
fied but  about  its  swing  was  a  familiar  something 
and,  inspired  by  an  idea,  Bayard  returned  to  the  house, 
emerged  with  a  field  glass  and  focused  it  on  the  ap- 
proaching horse.     The  animal  was  his  sorrel  stallion. 

"  Come  on,  Abe,"  he  said  aloud,  putting  down  the 
binoculars  with  a  hand  that  trembled.  "  They've  sent 
you  on  home,  or  you've  got  away.  .  .  .  But  how  about 
th'  party  you  carried  off?  " 

He  walked  to  the  gate  and  stood  uneasily  awaiting 


232  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

the  arrival  of  the  animal.  As  the  sorrel  came  into  sight 
from  the  nearest  wash  into  which  he  had  disappeared 
he  was  moving  at  a  deliberate  trot,  but  when  he  made 
out  the  figure  of  his  waiting  master  he  strode  swifter, 
finally  breaking  into  a  gallop  and  approaching  at  great 
speed,  whinnering  from  time  to  time. 

The  bridle  reins  were  knotted  securely  about  the 
horn.  He  had  not  escaped;  Abe  had  been  sent  home. 
He  stopped  before  Bruce  and  nuzzled  the  man's  hands 
as  they  caressed  his  hot,  soft  nose. 

"  It  looks  as  if  they  had  trouble  before  they  left, 
from  th'  way  my  room  is,"  the  man  said  to  the  horse 
as  he  stroked  his  nose,  "  but  I  know  right  well  he'd 
never  got  you  out  of  that  corral  alone  an'  never  got 
you  off  in  that  direction  unless  somebody'd  helped  him; 
she  might  make  you  mind  'cause  she  rode  you  once.  If 
it  wasn2t  for  that  ...  I'd  think  she'd  been  forced 
.  .  .   'cause  they  must  have  had  a  racket.   .  .   ." 

He  led  the  horse  through  the  gate  and  into  the 
corral.  There,  he  slipped  the  bridle  off,  uncinched  and 
dragged  the  saddle  toward  him.  As  the  polished, 
darkened  seat  turned  to  the  bright  sunlight,  he  saw  that 
the  leather  had  been  defaced  and,  indignation  mount- 
ing, he  leaned  over  to  inspect  it.  The  resentment  de- 
parted, a  mingling  of  fear  and  triumph  and  rage  rose 
within  him,  for  on  the  saddle  had  been  scratched  in 
hasty,  crude  characters : 

BOUND  FOR  MI 

NE 

HELP 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  233 

No  need  to  speculate  as  to  the  author  of  that  message 
on  the  saddle.  That  Ann  had  been  forced  by  circum- 
stances to  do  the  work  furtively  was  as  evident.  And 
the  combination  of  facts  which  rode  uppermost  in  his 
confused  mentality  was  this.  Ann  Lytton  was  being 
taken  to  the  Sunset  mine  against  her  will;  she  had  ap- 
pealed to  him  for  aid  and,  because  of  that,  he  knew 
that  she  had  chosen  between  the  two,  between  her  hus- 
band and  her  honorable  lover! 

For  a  moment,  mad,  hot  triumph  filled  him.  He 
had  done  his  best  with  the  ruin  of  a  man  he  had  set  out 
to  reconstruct;  he  had  groomed  him  well,  con- 
scientiously, giving  him  thorough  care,  great  considera- 
tion, just  to  satisfy  his  own  moral  sense;  he  had 
given  him  back  to  Ann  at  the  cost  of  intense  suffering 
.  .  .  and  it  had  not  been  enough  for  her;  she  was  not 
satisfied.  Beside  her  husband,  bound  for  her  hus- 
band's mountain  home,  she  had  found  herself  in  her 
hour  of  need  and  had  cried  out  to  him  for  help  1 

Bruce  calculated  swiftly  as  he  stood  there.  Lytton's 
trail  from  the  ranch  led  straight  eastward,  toward  the 
Sunset  group.  They  had  not  ridden  the  whole  forty- 
five  miles  at  one  stretch.  He  was  satisfied  of  that. 
Obviously,  they  had  stopped  for  the  night  and  out  in 
that  country  toward  which  they  had  started  was  only 
one  ranch  that  would  not  take  them  miles  out  of  their 
course.  That  was  the  home  of  Hi  Boyd,  a  dozen  miles 
straight  east,  six  miles  south  and  east  from  Yavapai, 
thirty-three  miles   from   the   Sunset   group.     By  now 


234  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

they  were  making  on,  they  could  finish  their  journey 
before  night.   .   .  . 

And  then  recurred  a  thought  that  Bruce  had  over- 
looked in  those  moments  of  speculation,  of  quick  think- 
ing: 

"  Good  God,  Benny  Lynch's  waitin'  for  him  .  .  . 
with  murder  in  his  heart!  "  he  cried  aloud,  the  horror 
at  the  remembrance  so  sharp,  the  meaning  of  this  new 
factor  in  the  situation  so  portentous,  that  the  words 
came  from  his  lips  unconsciously.  He  stood  beside  the 
horse,  staring  down  at  the  message  on  the  saddle  again, 
bewildered,  a  feeling  of  helplessness  coming  over  him. 

"  I  can't  let  that  happen,  Abe,  I  can't!  "  he  said. 
"  I  drove  him  there.  .  .  .  He  must  have  gone  because 
.  .  .  He's  found  out  she  was  here  all  along  .  .  .  he's 
blamed  it  on  me.  .  .  .  He's  crazy  mad  an'  he's  ridin' 
straight  to  his  end!  ...  It  would  free  her,  but  I  can't 
let  it  happen  .  .  .  not  that  way  .   .  . 

"  It's  up  to  you  to  get  me  to  town,"  he  cried  as  he 
reached  for  the  bridle.  "  Just  to  Yavapai  .  .  .  that's 
all.  .  .  .  You're  th'  best  horse  in  th'  southwest,  but 
they've  got  too  much  of  a  start  on  you.  We'll  try 
automobiles  this  once,  Pardner !  " 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  the  saddle  was  on,  cinch 
tight.  He  gathered  the  reins,  called  to  the  sorrel  and 
Abe,  infected  with  his  excitement,  wheeled  for  the 
gate,  the  man  running  by  his  side.  As  the  animal 
rounded  into  the  road,  Bruce  vaulted  into  the  saddle, 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  235 

pawed  with  his  right  foot  for  the  flopping  stirrup  and 
leaning  low  on  Abe's  neck,  shouted  into  his  ears  for 
speed. 

Merely  minutes  transpired  in  that  eight-mile  race 
to  Yavapai.  Bayard's  idea  was  to  hire  the  one  auto- 
mobile of  which  the  town  boasted,  start  down  the  valley 
road  that  Lytton  and  Ann  must  follow  to  reach  the 
mine,  overtake  and  turn  them  back,  somehow,  on  some 
pretext.  He  could  arrange  the  device  later;  he  could 
think  of  the  significance  of  Ann's  appeal  to  him  when 
the  man  between  them  was  free  from  the  danger  of 
which  Bayard  was  aware;  his  whole  thought  now  was 
to  beat  time,  to  reach  town  with  the  least  possible  waste 
of  seconds.  The  steel  sinews,  the  leather  lungs,  the 
great  heart  of  the  beast  under  him  responded  nobly 
to  this  need.  They  stormed  along  the  wagon  tracks 
when  they  held  straight,  thundered  through  the  un- 
marked grass  and  over  rocks  when  the  highway  turned 
and  twisted.  Once,  when  they  ran  through  a  shallow 
wash  and  i\be  climbed  the  far  side  with  a  scramble,  fire 
shot  from  his  shoes  and  Bruce  cried, 

"  You're  th'  stallion  shod  with  fire,  boy!  " 

It  was  a  splendid,  unfaltering  run,  and,  when  the 
rider  swung  down  before  the  little  corrugated  iron 
building  that  housed  Yavapai's  motor  car,  the  stallion 
was  black  with  water  and  his  breath  came  and  went 
with  the  gasps  of  fatigue  and  nervous  tension. 

Bruce  turned  from  his  horse  and  stepped  toward  the 


236  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

open  door  of  the  garage.  A  man  was  there,  behind  the 
car,  looking  dolefully  down  at  an  array  of  grease  cov- 
ered parts  that  littered  the  floor. 

"  Jimmy,  I  want  you  to  take  me  out  on  th'  Valley 
road  this  mornin'.     How  soon  can  we  get  away?  " 

"  It  won't  be  this  mornin'  or  this  afternoon,  Bruce," 
the  man  said,  with  a  shake  of  his  head.  "  I've  got  a 
busted  differential." 

"  Can't  it  be  fixed?  " — misgiving  in  his  voice. 

"  Not  here.  I  have  to  send  to  Prescott  for  a  new 
one.     I'll  be  laid  up  a  couple  of  days  anyhow." 

Bayard  did  not  answer.  Just  stood  trying  to  face 
the  situation  calmly,  trying  to  figure  his  handicap. 

"  Is  it  awful  important,  Bruce?"  the  man  asked, 
struck  by  the  cowman's  attitude. 

"  I  guess  th'  end  of  th'  world's  more  important," — 
as  he  turned  away,  "  but  to  me,  an'  compared  to  this, 
it's  a  small  sized  accident." 

He  walked  slowly  out  into  the  street  and  paused  to 
look  calculatingly  at  Abe.  Then,  turning  abruptly, 
struck  by  a  new  possibility,  he  ran  across  to  the  Man- 
zanita  House,  entered  the  door,  strode  into  the  office, 
took  down  the  telephone  receiver  and  rattled  the  hook 
impatiently. 

"  I  want  Hi  Boyd's  ranch,"  he  said  to  the  operator. 
Then,  after  a  wait  in  which  he  shifted  from  foot  to  foot 
and  swore  under  his  breath:  "Hello  .  .  .  Boyd's? 
Is  this  Hi  Boyd?     It  is?  .  .  .  Well  Hi,  this  is  Bruce 


THE  MESSAGE  ON  THE  SADDLE  237 

Bayard  an'  I've  got  to  have  a  horse  from  you  this 
mornin'.   .   .   ." 

"  A  horse !  "  came  the  thin,  distant  exclamation  over 
the  wire.  "  Everybody  wants  horses  off  me  to- 
day.  .  .  ." 

"  But  I've  got  to  have  one,  Hi !  It's  mighty  impor- 
tant.    Yours  is  th'  only  ranch  that's  on  my  way — " 

".  .  .  an'  we  let  one  get  away  this  mornin',"  the 
voice  went  on,  not  pausing  for  Bruce's  insistence,  "  'fore 
daylight  an'  left  a  lady  who  spent  th'  night  with  us  a 
foot.  We  had  to  go  catch  up  another  for  'em  an'  Lyt- 
ton  —  Ned  Lytton,  was  th'  man  —  only  got  on  two 
hours  ago  .  .  .  three  hours  late!  No,  they  ain't  a 
horse  on  th'  place  that'll  ride." 

11  Can't  you  catch  one  for  me?  "  Bruce  persisted. 

"How?  Run  him  down  on  foot?  If  I  was  a 
young  man  like  you,  I  might,  but  now.  .   .  ." 

Bayard  slammed  up  the  receiver  and  turned  away, 
staring  at  the  floor.  He  walked  into  the  street  again, 
looking  about  almost  wildly.  One  by  one  the  agencies 
that  might  prevent  the  impending  catastrophe  out  yon- 
der had  been  rendered  helpless.  The  automobile,  the 
chance  of  getting  a  change  horse,  his  haste  in  riding  to 
Yavapai  and  its  consequent  inroads  made  upon  Abe's 
strength. 

"  I'm  playin'  with  a  stacked  deck!  "  he  muttered,  as 
he  approached  the  stallion.  "  There  ain't  another 
horse  in  this  country  equal  to  you   even  after  your 


238  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

mornin's  work,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  breathing,  sweat 
darkened  creature.  "  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  do  it  for 
anybody  else,  Boy.  But  .  .  .  won't  you  do  it  for  her  ? 
She  sent  for  me.  Will  you  take  me  back?  It'll  mean 
a  lot  to  her,  let  alone  what  it  means  to  me  ...  if  I 
don't  stop  him. 

"  It's  thirty-five  miles  for  us  to  make  while  they're 
doin'  little  more  'n  twenty,  for  they've  been  traveling 
since  dawn.  Maybe  it'll  be  you're  last  run.  ...  It 
may  break  your  heart.  .  .  .  How  about  it?  " 

In  his  desperation,  something  boyish  came  into  his 
tone,  his  manner,  and  he  appealed  to  his  horse  as  he 
would  have  pleaded  with  another  human  being.  The 
sorrel  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  great  intelligent  eyes 
unblinking,  ears  forward  with  attentiveness  and,  after 
a  moment,  the  white  patch  on  his  nose  twitched  and  he 
moved  closer  against  his  master  as  he  gave  a  low  little 
nicker. 

"  Is  that  your  answer,  Abe?  Are  you  savin'  yes?  " 
Bayard  asked,  and  unbuckled  his  chap  belt.  "  Is  it, 
old  timer?  You're  .  .  .  it's  all  up  to  you!"  He 
kicked  out  of  his  chaps,  flung  them  to  the  hotel  porch, 
mounted,  reined  the  stallion  about  and  high  in  the 
stirrups,  a  live,  flexible  weight,  rode  out  of  town  at  a 
slow  trot,  holding  the  horse  to  the  gait  that  the  wind 
which  blew  in  from  the  big  expanse  of  country  might 
cool  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    END   OF   THE    VIGIL 

Benny  Lynch  was  at  work  in  the  face  of  the  Sunset's 
lower  tunnel.  He  swung  his  singlejack  swiftly,  surely, 
regularly,  and  each  time  it  struck  the  drill,  his  breath 
whistled  through  his  lips  in  the  manner  of  mine 
workers.  His  candle,  its  stick  secure  in  a  crack  above 
him,  lighted  the  small  chamber  and  under  its  uncer- 
tain, inefficient  rays,  his  face  seemed  drawn  and  hard 
and  old. 

A  fortnight  ago,  when  he  rode  to  the  Circle  A  ranch 
to  share  with  Bayard  the  secret  that  harassed  him  his 
countenance  had  been  merely  sober,  troubled;  but  now 
it  gave  evidence  of  a  severe  strain  that  had  endured 
long  enough  to  wear  down  his  stolidity  —  the  tension 
that  would  naturally  come  to  a  man  who  is  normally 
kind  and  gentle  and  who,  by  those  same  qualities,  is 
driven  to  hunt  a  fellow  human  as  he  would  plot  to  take 
the  life  of  a  dangerous  animal.  Through  those  two 
weeks  he  had  been  waiting  alone  in  the  mining  camp, 
working  eight  hours  each  day,  doing  his  cooking  and 
housework  methodically,  regularly,  telling  himself  that 
he  had  settled  down  to  the  routine  of  industriously  de- 
veloping property  that  was  rightfully  his,  when  that 

239 


240  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

occupation  was  only  a  ruse,  a  blind,  when  he  was  wait- 
ing there  solely  for  the  opportunity  to  kill !  His  watch- 
ing had  not  been  patient;  it  was  outwardly  deliberate, 
true,  but  inwardly  it  kept  him  in  a  continual  state  of 
ferment;  witness  the  lines  about  his  mouth,  the  pallor 
of  his  skin,  the  feverish,  expectant  look  in  his  eyes. 

On  a  spike  in  the  timbering  hung  an  alarm  clock  .  .  . 
and  a  gun  belt,  weighted  with  revolver  and  ammunition. 
At  regular,  frequent  intervals,  the  blows  of  his  jack 
were  checked  and  he  sat  crouched  there,  head  forward 
and  a  trifle  to  one  side,  as  though  he  were  listening. 
When  no  sound  save  the  singing  of  his  candle  wick 
reached  his  ears,  he  went  on,  regularly,  evenly,  purpose- 
ful. Possibly  the  tension  that  showed  about  his  mouth 
became  more  noticeable  after  each  of  these  brief 
periods  when  he  strained  to  catch  sounds. 

With  a  final  blow  Benny  left  off  the  rhythmic  swing, 
wiped  his  forehead  with  a  wrist,  poured  water  from  a 
small  tin  bucket  into  the  hole  on  which  he  was  at  work 
and  picked  up  his  jack  to  resume  the  swinging.  He 
glanced  at  the  clock. 

"  It's  time,"  he  said  aloud,  his  voice  reverberating 
hollowly  in  the  place. 

He  put  down  his  hammer  quickly  and  rose  from  his 
squatting  position  as  though  he  had  neglected  to  per- 
form some  important  duty.  He  took  down  the  gun 
belt,  slung  it  about  his  waist,  and,  making  a  reflector  of 
his  hollowed  hand  for  the  candle,  started  out  along  the 
tunnel,  walking  swiftly,  intent  on  a  definite  end.  When 
he  reached  the  point  where  the  darkness  of  the  drift 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  241 

was  dissipated  by  the  white  sunlight,  he  extinguished  his 
feeble  torch,  jabbed  the  candlestick  into  the  hang- 
ing-wall and  reached  for  a  pair  of  binoculars  that,  in 
their  worn  and  battered  case,  hung  from  the  timber- 
ing. 

"  This  is  'n  elegant  day,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he  walked 
out  on  to  the  dump,  manipulating  the  focusing  screw  of 
the  glass  and  looking  cautiously  around  at  the  pine  clad 
mountains  which  stretched  away  to  right,  left  and  be- 
hind him. 

Evidently  his  mind  was  not  on  his  words  or  on  the 
idea;  he  was  merely  keeping  up  his  game  of  pretense, 
while  beneath  the  surface  he  was  alert,  expectant. 
Near  the  foot  of  the  pile  of  waste  rock  was  the  log 
cabin  with  its  red,  iron  roof  and  protruding  stove  pipe. 
Far  below  him  and  running  outward  like  a  great  tinted 
carpet  spread  Manzanita  Valley.  Close  in  to  the  base 
of  the  hills  on  which  he  stood  a  range  of  bald,  flat- 
topped,  miniature  buttes  made,  from  his  eminence,  a 
low  welt  in  its  contour,  but  beyond  that  and  except  for 
an  occasional  island  of  knee-high  oak  brush  it  seemed 
to  be  without  mar  or  blemish.  Here  and  there  patches 
of  deeper  color  showed  and  the  experienced  eye  knew 
that  there  the  country  swelled  or  was  cut  by  washes, 
but,  otherwise,  it  all  seemed  to  be  flat,  unbroken. 

On  this  immense  stretch  of  country  Benny  trained  the 
glass.  His  manner  was  intent,  resolute.  Each  hour 
during  daylight  he  had  been  making  that  observation 
for  a  fortnight;  every  time  he  had  anticipated  reward, 


242  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

action.  Aided  by  the  lenses  he  picked  out  the  low 
buttes,  saw  a  spot  that  he  knew  was  a  grazing  horse,  a 
distant  shimmering  blotch  of  mellow  white  canopied 
by  a  golden  aura  that  meant  sheep,  turned  his  body 
from  left  to  right  in  swift,  sweeping  inspection. 

And  stopped  all  movement  with  a  jerk,  while  an  in- 
articulate exclamation  came  from  him. 

For  the  first  time  his  sight  had  encountered  that  for 
which  he  had  been  seeking.  He  was  motionless  an  in- 
stant, then  lowered  the  glass  to  his  chest-level  and 
stared  hard  with  naked  eyes.  He  wet  his  lips  with  his 
tongue  and  strained  forward,  used  the  glasses  again, 
shifted  his  footing,  looking  about  with  a  show  of  bright 
nervousness,  and  rubbed  the  lenses  on  his  shirt  briskly. 

"  He  ain't  even  waitin'  to  take  th'  road,"  he  said 
aloud.     "  He's  in  a  powerful  hurry!  " 

Once  more  the  instrument  picked  out  the  moving  dot 
under  that  vast  dome  of  brilliant  blue  sky  and,  for  a 
lengthy  interval  Benny  held  his  aided  gaze  upon  it, 
watching  it  disappear  and  come  into  sight  again,  ever 
holding  toward  him  through  wash  and  over  swells, 
maintaining  its  steady  crawling.  He  moved  further 
out  on  the  dump  to  obtain  a  better  view  and  leaned 
against  the  rusty  ore  car  on  its  track  that  he  might  be 
steadier;  for  sight  of  that  purposeful  life  down  yonder 
had  started  ever  so  slight  tremors  through  his  stalwart 
limbs. 

He  muttered  to  himself,  and  again  looked  alertly 
about,    right    and    left    and    behind.     His    eye    was 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  243 

brighter,  harder.  When  he  looked  into  the  valley 
again,  sweeping  its  expanse  to  find  the  horseman  who 
had  momentarily  disappeared,  he  stood  with  gaze  fixed 
in  quite  another  direction  and,  when  he  had  suppressed 
his  breath  an  instant  to  make  absolutely  certain,  he  cried 
excitedly: 

"  In  bunches!     They're  comin'  in  droves!  " 

He  put  down  the  binocular,  took  the  six-gun  from  its 
holster,  twirled  the  cylinder  briskly  and  caressed  the 
trigger  with  an  eager  finger.  His  mouth  had  become 
a  tight,  straight  line  and  his  brows  were  gathered 
slightly,  as  in  perplexity.  He  breathed  audibly  as  he 
watched  those  indications  of  human  life  on  the  valley. 
He  knew  then  the  greatest  torment  of  suspense.   .   .  . 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  the  near  dot  had  become 
easily  discernible  to  the  naked  eye,  when  the  figure  of 
horse  and  rider  was  in  sharp  detail  through  the  glass, 
the  ominous  quality  about  the  man  gave  way  to  frank 
mystification.  He  flung  one  leg  over  the  corner  of  the 
ore  car,  and  his  face  ceased  to  reflect  his  great  deter- 
mination, became  puzzled,  half  alarmed. 

"That's  Bruce's  stallion,  if  I  ever  seen  him!"  he 
thought,  "  An'  he's  been  run  to  th'  last  breath." 

The  horse  went  out  of  sight,  entered  the  timber  be- 
low Benny  and  the  clicking  of  stones,  the  sounds  of 
shod  hoofs  floundering  over  bare  rocks  gave  evidence 
that  he  would  be  at  the  mine  level  in  another  five  min- 
utes. The  man  hitched  his  gun  belt  about,  took  one 
more  anxious,  puzzled  look  down  into  the  valley  where 


244  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

other  figures  moved,  and  walked  down  the  trail  toward 
the  cabin  slowly,  watching  through  the  pines  for  sight 
of  the  climbing  animal. 

A  man  came  first,  bent  over  that  he  might  climb 
faster  up  the  steep  trail.  He  was  leading  a  horse  that 
was  drenched  from  ear  to  ankle,  lathered  about  neck 
and  shoulder  and  flank,  who  breathed  in  short,  low 
sobs,  and  stepped  with  the  uneven  awkwardness  of 
utter  fatigue.  Benny  stopped  as  he  recognized  Bayard 
and  Abe  and  his  right  hand  which  had  rested  lightly 
on  the  gun  butt  at  his  hip  dropped  to  his  thigh.  He 
stood  still,  waiting  for  them  to  come  nearer,  wondering 
anxiously  what  this  might  mean,  for  he  knew  that  the 
owner  of  the  sorrel  stallion  would  never  have  ridden 
him  to  that  condition  without  cause. 

Bayard  looked  up,  saw  the  man  waiting  for  him  and 
halted  between  strides,  the  one  foot  far  advanced  be- 
fore the  other.  His  face  was  white  and  he  stared  hard 
at  the  miner,  studying  him  closely,  dreading  to  ask  the 
question  that  was  at  his  lips.  But  after  that  momen- 
tary pause  he  blurted  out, 

"  Is  everything  all  right,  Benny?  " 

And  Lynch,  shaken  by  Bruce's  appearance,  the  man- 
ner of  his  arrival,  countered: 

"  What's  wrong?  What  is  it?  " — walking  swiftly 
down  the  trail  toward  the  newcomer. 

"  Has  anybody  been  here  before  me,  to-day?  " 

"  Nobody,  Bruce.  What  is  it?  " —  anxiously,  feel- 
ing somehow  that  they  were  both  in  danger. 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  245 

"  Thank  God  for  that!  "  Bayard  muttered,  some  of 
the  intensity  going  from  him,  and  turned  to  loose  the 
cinch.  "  We  weren't  too  late,  Abe,  we  weren't."  He 
dragged  the  saddle  from  the  stallion's  dripping  back, 
flung  it  on  the  rocks  behind  him,  pulled  off  the  bridle 
and  with  hands  that  were  not  steady,  stroked  the  lath- 
ered withers  as  the  horse  stood  with  head  hung  and 
let  the  breath  sob  and  wheeze  down  his  long  throat 
while  his  limbs  trembled  under  his  weight.  "  We've 
come  from  town  in  th'  most  awful  ride  a  horse  ever 
made  on  this  valley,  Benny.  Look  at  him !  I  had  to 
ask  him,  I  had  to  ask  him  to  do  this,  to  run  his  heart  out 
for  me;  I  had  to  do  it!  " 

He  stood  looking  at  his  horse  and  for  the  moment 
seemed  to  be  wholly  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  ani- 
mal's condition;  his  voice  had  been  uncertain  as  he 
pleaded  the  vague  necessity  for  such  a  run. 

"What  is  it,  Bruce?  Why  was  you  in  such  a 
hurry?  "  Lynch  asked,  taking  the  cowman  gently  by 
the  arm,  turning  him  so  that  they  confronted  one  an- 
other, an  uneasy  connection  forming  in  his  mind  be- 
tween his  friend's  dramatic  arrival  and  his  own  purpose 
at  the  mine. 

"  Ned  Lytton  an'  his  wife  are  comin'  here  to-day, 
Benny," — bluntly.  "I  had  to  get  here  before  them 
to  stop  you  .  .  .  doin'  what  you've  come  here  an' 
waited  to  do." 

The  other's  hand  dropped  from  Bruce's  arm;  in 
Benny's  face  the  look  of  fear,  of  doubt,  gave  way  to  a 


246  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

return  of  the  strained,  tense  expression  with  its  dogged 
determination.  That  was  it !  The  woman,  identified 
as  such  through  his  glass,  was  Lytton's  wife !  He  felt 
the  nerves  tightening  at  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ...  to  stop  me?  "  he 
asked,  spreading  his  feet,  arms  akimbo,  a  growing  de- 
fiance about  him. 

"  What  I  said,  Benny.  I've  come  to  stop  a  killin' 
here  to-day.     I  thank  God  I  was  in  time !  " 

His  old  assurance,  his  poise,  which  had  been  missing 
on  his  arrival,  had  returned  and  he  stepped  forward, 
reaching  out  a  hand  to  rest  on  Benny's  shoulder,  grip- 
ping through  the  flannel  shirt  with  his  long,  stout 
fingers. 

"  You  told  me  your  trouble  with  Lytton  in  confi- 
dence. I  thought  once  this  mornin'  maybe  I'd  have  to 
break  that  confidence.  I  thought  when  I  started  up 
this  trail  that  I  must  be  too  late  to  do  any  good,  but 
now  I'm  here  I  know  you'll  understand,  old  timer,  I 
know  you'll  understand!  " 

He  shook  Lynch  gently  with  his  hand  and  smiled,  but 
no  responsive  light  came  from  the  miner's  eyes  in  re- 
turn; hostility  was  there,  along  with  the  fever  of  wait- 
ing. 

"  No,  I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  sharply.  "  I 
don't  understand  why  you're  throwin'  in  with  that 
scum." 

"  Don't  think  that!  It's  not  for  him  I'm  doin'  this. 
I  wouldn't  ask  my  Abe  to  run  himself  sick  for  him! 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  247 

It's  for  my  own  peace  of  mind  an'  yours,   Benny." 

"  My  mind  '11  be  at  peace  when  I've  squared  my 
dad's  account  with  Lytton  an'  not  before!  " — with  a 
significant  gesture  toward  his  gun. 

"  But  mine  won't,  an'  neither  will  yours  when  you 
know  that  by  comin'  to  me  with  your  story  you  tied  me 
hand  an'  foot!  Hand  an'  foot,  Benny,  that's  what! 
I've  never  been  helpless  before,  but  I  am  this  time; 
if  Lytton  comes  to  any  harm  from  you  here  to-day,  his 
blood'll  be  on  my  hands.  I  know  he's  a  snake,  I  know 
he  knifed  your  daddy  in  th'  back," —  growing  more  in- 
tense, talking  faster,  "  But  he's  wrong,  Benny,  wrong  in 
th'  head.  A  man  can't  get  so  lowdown  as  he  is  an'  not 
be  wrong. 

"  Oh,  I  know  him.  I  know  him  better  than  you  or 
anybody  else  does!  I've  been  nursin'  him  for  weeks. 
Lie's  been  at  my  ranch  — " 

"  At  your— " 

"  Yes,  at  my  ranch.  I  took  him  there  a  month  ago, 
Benny,  to  make  a  man  of  him  for  his  wife,  the  sweetest 
woman  that  God  ever  made  live  to  make  us  men  better. 
I've  been  groomin'  him  up  for  her,  workin'  with  him, 
hatin'  him,  but  doin'  my  best  to  make  a  man  of  him. 
Now,  he's  bringin'  her  here  by  force  because  of  me,  an' 
she  sent  back  for  me  .  .  .  asked  me  to  help  her.  She 
knows  there's  danger  here.  I  didn't  tell  her  why,  but 
I  told  her  that  much,  told  her  never  to  let  him  come 
back.  Now  he's  forcin'  her  to  come  with  him  an'  she 
sent  for  me. 


248  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Don't  you  see?  I  can't  let  you  shoot  him  down! 
Can't  you  see  that,  Benny?  " 

He  shook  him  again  and  leaned  forward,  face  close 
to  face. 

"  No,  I  don't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference," 
Lynch  said  slowly,  a  hard  calm  covering  his  roused 
emotions. 

Bayard  drew  back  a  step  and  a  quick  flush  swept  into 
his  cheeks. 

"  But  I  sent  him  here,  Benny;  knowin'  you  were 
waitin'.     It's  my  fault  if  he  — " 

"You  sent  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  drove  him  out  here !  He  might  never  have 
come  back,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  I.  .  .  .  Nobody 
else  knows  this,  Benny;  maybe  nobody  ever  will  but 
you,  but  I've  got  to  make  you  understand.  He  .  .  . 
She  .  .  .  His  wife's  been  in  town  a  month.  She  come 
out  here  to  throw  herself  away  on  that  rat,  when  she 
don't  .  .  .  when  she  hates  him. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  of  it,  but  yesterday  he  saw  her 
for  th'  first  time. 

"  He  must  have  raised  hell  with  her  .  .  .  because  of 
me,  because  I've  known  she  was  out  here  and  didn't  tell 
him.  He  took  her  away  an'  she  .  .  .  sent  for 
me.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I'm  to  blame  ?  Hell,  it's  no  use 
hidin'  it;  he  took  her  off  to  get  her  away  from  me! 
He's  bringin'  her  here,  th'  nearest  place  to  a  home  he's 
got.     If  't  wasn't,  for  me,  he  wouldn't  have  started  for 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  249 

this  place;  he'd  stayed  there.  Don't  you  see,  Benny, 
that  I'm  drivin'  him  into  your  hands.  You  may  be 
justified  in  killin',  but  I  ain't  justified  ...  in  helpin 
you!" 

"  If  it's  that  way  .  .  .  between  she  an'  you  .  .  . 
you'd  ought  to  be  glad.   .   .  ." 

"  Not  that  way!  "  Bayard  exclaimed.  "  Not  that, 
Benny !  He's  everything  you've  called  him,  but  I  can't 
foul  him.  I've  got  to  be  more'n  square  with  him  be- 
cause he  is  .  .  .  her  husband  an'  because  she  did  .  .  . 
send  for  me  !  " 

For  a  moment  the  miner  seemed  to  waver;  a  differ- 
ent look  appeared  in  his  eyes,  an  appreciation  for  the 
absolute  openness  of  this  man  before  him,  his  great 
sense  of  fair  play,  his  honesty,  his  sincerity.  Then,  he 
remembered  that  minutes  had  been  consumed,  that  his 
game  was  drawing  to  a  climax. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said,  doggedly,  drawing  back, 
11  We  understand  each  other  now,  Bruce,  an'  my  ad- 
vice to  you  is  to  clear  out.  Things  '11  happen  right 
soon." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  slowly,  with  incredulity. 

"  Don't  you  know  they  wasn't  a  mile  behind  you,  on 
th'  other  side  of  them  low  bluffs?  " 

Bayard  half  turned,  sharply,  as  though  he  expected 
to  find  Ann  and  Lytton  directly  behind  him  on  the 
trail. 

"God,  no!"  he  answered  in  a  hushed  tone. 
11  Rough  country,  that's  why  I  didn't  see  'em." 


250  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Well,  that's  them  ...  a  man  an'  woman.  They 
ought  to  be  here  any  minute." 

Lynch's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  on  the  last  and  he 
drew  the  gun  from  its  scabbard,  peering  down  the  trail, 
listening.  On  sight  of  the  colt,  a  flicker  came  into 
Bayard's  eyes,  his  jaw  tightened,  his  shoulders  squared 
themselves. 

"  I'll  go  down  an'  meet  him,"  the  miner  said  quite 
calmly,  though  the  color  had  gone  even  from  his  lips. 
"  It's  .  .  ." 

With  a  drive  of  his  hand,  Bayard's  fingers  fastened 
on  the  gun  and  the  jerk  he  gave  the  weapon  tore  Lynch 
from  his  footing. 

"  You'll  not,  Benny!  " — in  a  whisper,  securing  the 
gun,  and  flinging  it  into  the  brush  behind  him,  gripping 
the  other  man  by  his  shirt  front,  "  You  won't,  by  God, 
if  I  have  to  choke  you  black  in  the  face !  " 

Lynch  drew  back  against  the  cabin  wall,  struggling 
to  free  himself. 

"  It's  my  fight,  Bruce !  "  .  .  .  breathing  in  gasps, 
eyes  wide,  voice  strained  almost  to  the  point  of  sobbing. 

"  I'll  let  go  when  you  promise  me  to  go  into  your 
house  an'  sit  there  an'  keep  quiet  until  I  finish  my  work 
...  or,  until  you're  molested." 

"  Not  after  two  years  !     Not  after  my  dad.  .  .  ." 

Tears  stood  in  the  miner's  eyes  and  he  struck  out 
viciously  with  his  fists;  then  Bayard,  thrusting  his  head 
forward,  flung  out  his  arms  in  a  clinging,  binding  em- 
brace and  they  went  down  on  the  trail,  a  tangle  of  limbs. 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  251 

Benny  was  no  match  in  such  a  combat  and  in  a  trice  he 
was  on  his  face,  arms  held  behind  him  and  Bayard  was 
lashing  his  wrists  together  with  his  bridle  reins. 

"  Stand  up !  "  he  said,  sharply,  when  he  had  finished. 

He  picked  up  the  revolver  and,  with  a  hand  under 
one  of  the  bound  arms,  helped  Benny  to  his  feet. 

"  I'll  apologize  later.  I'll  do  anything.  I  came 
out  here  to  prevent  a  killin',  Benny,  an'  my  work  ain't 
done  yet." 

The  miner  cursed  him  in  a  strained  voice  and  the 
come  and  go  of  his  breath  was  swift  and  irregular. 
He  trembled  violently.  All  the  brooding  he  had  ex- 
perienced in  the  last  months,  all  the  strain  of  wait- 
ing he  had  known  in  the  recent  days,  the  conviction 
that  his  hour  of  accomplishment  was  at  hand,  and 
the  sudden,  overwhelming  sense  of  physical  helpless- 
ness that  was  now  on  him  combined  to  render  his 
anger  that  of  a  child.  He  attempted  to  hold  back,  but 
Bayard  jerked  him  forward  and,  half  dragged,  half 
carried,  he  entered  the  kitchen  of  the  cabin  he  had 
helped  build,  which  had  been  stolen  from  him  and 
which  was  now  to  be  his  prison  at  the  moment  when  he 
had  planned  to  make  his  title  to  the  property  good  by 
killing.  .  .  . 

Bayard,  too,  trembled,  and  his  gray  eyes  glittered. 
He  breathed  through  his  lips  and  was  conscious  that 
his  mouth  was  very  dry.  His  movements  were  fever- 
ish and  he  handled  Lynch  as  though  he  were  so  much 
insensate  matter. 


252  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Benny  protested  volubly,  shouting  and  screaming 
and  kicking,  trying  to  resist  with  all  his  bodily  force, 
but  Bruce  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  He  handled  his 
captive  with  a  peculiar  abstraction  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  they  struggled  constantly. 

Bayard  kicked  a  chair  away  from  the  table,  forced 
Lynch  into  it  and  holding  him  fast  with  one  arm,  drew 
the  dangling  bridle  reins  through  the  spindles  of  the 
back  and  lashed  the  miner's  bound  wrists  there  securely. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Benny,"  he  said,  hurriedly  and 
earnestly,  as  he  straightened.  "  You  and  I  .  .  .  we'll 
have  this  out  afterwards.  .  .  .  Your  gun  .  .  .  I'll 
leave  it  here," —  putting  the  weapon  on  top  of  a  bat- 
tered cupboard  that  stood  against  the  wall  behind 
Benny. 

"  I'm  goin'  down  to  turn  him  back  towards  town, 
Benny.  ...  I  won't  give  you  away;  he  won't  know 
you're  here,  but  I've  got  to  do  it  myself.  I  can't  let 
you  kill  him  to-day  ...  I  can't,  because  I'm  to  blame 
for  his  comin'  here !  " 

He  was  gone  then,  with  a  thudding  of  boots  and  a 
ringing  of  spurs  as  he  ran  from  the  room,  struck  into 
the  trail  and  went  down  among  the  pines  at  a  pace 
which  threatened  a  nasty  fall  at  every  stride.  And 
Benny,  left  alone,  whimpered  aloud  and  tugged  in- 
effectually at  the  knots  which  held  him  captive  in  his 
chair.  After  a  short  interval,  he  stopped  the  strug- 
gling and  strained  forward  to  listen.  No  sound 
reached  his  ears  except  the  low,  sweet,  throaty  tweeting 


THE  END  OF  THE  VIGIL  253 

of  quail  as  they  ran  swiftly  over  the  rocks,  under  a 
clump  of  brush  and  disappeared.  The  world  was  very 
quiet  and  peaceful  .  .  .  only  in  the  man's  heart  was 
storm.  .  .  . 

Bayard  ran  on  down  the  trail  toward  the  edge  of 
the  timber  where  he  might  look  out  on  the  valley  and 
see  those  two  riders  he  had  followed  and  passed  with- 
out seeing.  He  had  no  plan.  He  would  tell  Lytton 
to  go  back,  would  make  him  go  back,  with  nothing  but 
his  will  and  his  naked  hands.  He  wanted  to  laugh  as 
he  ran,  for  his  relief  was  great;  there  was  to  be  no 
killing  that  day,  no  blood  was  to  be  on  his  conscience, 
no  tragedy  was  to  stand  between  him  and  the  woman 
who  had  called  for  aid. 

His  pace  became  reckless,  for  the  descent  was  steep 
and,  when  he  emerged  from  the  timber,  his  whole  at- 
tention was  centered  on  keeping  himself  upright  and 
overcoming  his  momentum.  When  he  could  stop,  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  country  below  him,  searched 
quickly  for  the  figures  of  Ned  and  his  wife  and  swore  in 
perplexity.  He  did  not  see  sign  of  a  moving  crea- 
ture. He  knew  that  there  was  no  depression  in  that 
part  of  the  valley  deep  enough  to  hide  them  from  him 
as  he  stood  on  that  vantage  point.  Had  Lynch  been 
mistaken?     Had  he  deceived  him  artfully? 

He  looked  about  bewildered,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  ex- 
plain the  situation.  Then  ran  on,  searching  the  trail 
for  indication  of  passing  horses.  They  could  not  have 
turned  back  and  ridden  from  sight  in  the  short  time  that 


254  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

had  elapsed  since  Benny  saw  them  ...  if  he  had  seen 
them.     Where  could  they  go,  but  on  to  the  mine  ? 

The  worn  trail  still  led  him  down  grade,  though  the 
pitch  was  not  so  severe  as  it  had  been  higher  up;  how- 
ever, he  did  not  realize  the  distance  he  was  from 
timber  when  he  came  upon  fresh  horse  tracks.  They 
had  ridden  up  to  that  point  at  a  walk;  they  had  stopped 
there,  and  when  they  went  on  they  had  swerved  to  the 
right  and  ridden  for  the  hills  with  horses  at  a  gallop. 

Bayard  read  the  tell-tale  signs  in  an  instant,  wheeled, 
looked  up  at  the  abrupt  slopes  above  him  and  cried, 

"  He's  gone  around  for  some  reason  ...  in  a 
hurry.  ...  To  come  into  camp  from  behind!  " 

And  trembling  at  thought  of  what  might  be  hap- 
pening back  there  in  the  cabin,  he  started  up  the  trail, 
running  laboriously  against  the  steep  rise  of  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    FIGHT 

Bayard  had  guessed  rightly.  After  miles  of  silent 
riding  Lytton  had  pulled  his  horse  up  with  a  jerk,  had 
laid  a  hand  on  Ann's  bridle  and  checked  her  pony 
with  another  wrench. 

"  Who's  that?  "  he  growled,  staring  at  Bayard. 

She  had  looked  at  the  distant  horse,  floundering  up 
the  slope  beyond  them,  recognized  both  Abe  and  his 
rider  and  had  turned  to  stare  at  her  husband  with  fear 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  he  demanded  again,  and  she  dropped 
her  gaze. 

"  So  that's  it!  "  he  jeered.  "Your  lover  is  trying 
to  play  two  games.  He's  come  to  beat  us  to  it, 
has  he  ?  " —  he  licked  his  lips  nervously.  "  Well,  we'll 
see!" 

He  hung  his  spurs  in  and  fanned  her  horse  with  his 
quirt  and,  still  clinging  to  her  bridle,  led  his  wife  at  a 
high  lope  off  to  the  right,  swinging  behind  a  shoulder 
of  the  hill  and  climbing  up  a  sharp,  wooded  draw. 

"  I'll  fool  your  friend!  "  he  laughed,  twenty  minutes 
later  when  they  had  climbed  a  steep  ridge  and  the 
winded  horses  had  dropped  into  a  walk.  "  I'll  fool 
him!" 

255 


256  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

He  drew  Bayard's  automatic,  which  he  had  taken 
from  Ann,  and  looked  it  over  in  crafty  anticipation. 

Ann,  after  her  night  and  her  day  of  hardship,  of 
ceaseless  anxiety,  could  not  cry  out.  A  sound  started 
but  went  dry  and  dead  in  her  throat.  She  sat  lax 
in  her  saddle,  worn  and  confused  and  suddenly  in- 
different. She  had  been  defiant  yesterday  afternoon 
for  a  time;  she  had  been  frightened  later;  with  cunning 
she  had  scratched  her  warning  on  Abe's  saddle  and 
with  like  strategy  she  had  managed  to  set  the  great 
horse  free  when  they  were  preparing  for  their  early 
morning  start  from  the  Boyd  ranch.  She  had  with- 
stood her  husband's  taunts  flung  at  her  through  their 
sleepless  night,  she  had  taken  in  silence  his  abuse  when 
it  became  necessary  to  secure  another  horse;  beside 
him  she  had  ridden  in  silence  down  the  valley,  know- 
ing him  for  a  crazed  man.  And  now  sight  of  Bay- 
ard, the  sense  of  relief  that  his  nearness  brought,  the 
sudden  fear  for  his  safety  at  seeing  the  pistol,  re- 
duced her  to  helplessness. 

"  You  wait  here,"  she  heard  her  husband  say. 

He  followed  the  order  with  a  threat  of  some  sort,  a 
threat  against  her  life  she  afterward  remembered,  dis- 
mounted and  walked  away.  At  the  time  his  de- 
parture left  no  impression  on  her.  She  sat  limp  in 
her  saddle  a  long  interval,  then  leaned  forward  and, 
face  in  her  horse's  mane,  gave  way  to  sobbing.  The 
vent  for  that  emotion  was  relief;  how  long  she  cried 
she  did  not  know,  but  suddenly  she  found  herself  on  the 


THE  FIGHT  257 

ground,  looking  about,  alive  to  the  fact  that  the  silence 
seemed  like  that  of  death. 

Cautiously,  Lytton  crept  up  over  the  rocks  after  he 
left  Ann.  His  movements  gave  no  hint  of  his  recent 
weakness;  they  were  quick  and  jerky,  but  certain.  His 
lids  were  narrowed  and  between  them  his  eyes  showed 
balefully.  He  held  his  weapon  in  his  right  hand, 
slightly  elevated,  ready  to  shoot.  Moisture  formed 
on  his  forehead  and  ran  down  over  his  cheeks.  Now 
and  then  his  gun  hand  trembled  spasmodically  and  then 
he  halted  until  it  was  firm  again. 

He  knew  these  rocks  well  and  took  no  chances  of  ex- 
posing himself.  He  slunk  from  tree  to  boulder  and 
from  boulder  to  brush,  always  making  nearer  camp, 
always  ready  for  an  emergency.  He  attained  a  point 
where  he  could  look  down  on  the  cabin  below  him 
and  stood  there  a  long  time,  half  crouched,  poised, 
scanning  every  corner,  every  shadow.  The  corral  was 
hidden  from  him  and  Abe,  lying  under  a  spreading  juni- 
per tree,  was  out  of  his  range  of  vision.  He  listened 
as  he  watched  but  no  sound  came  to  him.  Then  he 
went  on,  down  the  ragged  way. 

At  intervals  of  every  few  feet  he  halted  and  listened, 
repressing  even  his  own  breath  that  he  might  hear  the 
slightest  sound.  But  no  movement,  no  vibration  dis- 
turbed that  crystal  noontime  until  he  had  gone  halfway 
to  the  red-roofed  house  below  the  dump.  Then  a  bird 
fluttered  from  close  beside  him:  a  soft,  abrupt,  diminish- 


258  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

ing  whirr  of  wings  and  the  man  shrank  back  against  the 
rock,  lifting  his  gun  hand  high,  breath  hissing  as  it 
slipped  out  between  his  teeth,  the  craven  in  him  shaking 
his  limbs,  gripping  his  throat.  Discovery  of  what  had 
startled  him  brought  only  slow  relief,  and  minutes 
elapsed  before  he  straightened  and  laughed  silently  to 
shame  his  nerves  to  steadiness. 

A  stone,  loosened  by  his  foot,  rolled  down  before 
him  to  the  next  ledge,  rattling  as  it  went,  and  he 
squatted  quickly,  again  afraid,  yet  alert.  For  he  felt 
that  noise  emanating  from  his  movements  would  pre- 
cipitate developments.  But  nothing  moved,  no  new 
sounds  came  to  him. 

He  was  not  certain  that  Bayard  had  seen  them  out 
on  the  valley.  He  did  not  know  of  his  wife's  message 
for  help;  in  his  confused  consciousness  he  had  supposed 
that  the  cowman  had  ridden  to  the  mine  on  some 
covetous  errand  and  that  Bruce  was  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  he  and  Ann  had  left  the  Circle  A.  He  did 
not  even  stop  to  remember  that  Bayard  had  come  into 
sight  and  disappeared  through  the  timber  on  Abe,  and 
that  the  stallion  had  slipped  away  from  them  before 
dawn.  He  had  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Bruce 
would  be  in  the  log  house  down  yonder  or  somewhere 
about  the  property.  So  he  stalked  on,  lips  dry  and  hot 
with  the  desire  to  kill.   .  .  . 

Lytton  approached  to  within  ten  yards  of  the  cabin 
without  hearing  more  sounds.  There  he  straightened 
to  his  toes  and  stretched  his  neck  to  look  about,  peering 


THE  FIGHT  259 

over  the  tops  of  oak  brush  that  flourished  in  the  scant 
soil,  and,  as  he  reached  his  full  height,  the  sharp  sound 
of  a  chair  scraping  on  the  floor  sent  him  to  a  wilting, 
quivering  squat,  caused  his  breath  to  come  in  gasps, 
made  his  hands  sweat  until  the  pistol  he  held  was  slip- 
pery with  their  moisture.  His  head  roared  with  ex- 
citement, but  through  it  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound 
of  a  man's  voice  lifted  in  speech. 

No  window  was  visible  to  him  from  his  position. 
The  back  door  of  the  kitchen  stood  open,  he  could  see, 
but  his  view  of  the  room  through  it  was  negligible.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  room  was  a  door  and  a  window, 
but  he  dared  not  risk  advance  from  that  direction.  He 
crouched  there,  panting,  fearing,  yet  planning  quickly, 
driven  to  desperation  by  the  urge  of  the  hate  which 
rankled  in  him.  Bruce  Bayard  had  attempted  to  steal 
his  wife,  he  repeated  to  himself,  he  had  attempted  to 
frighten  him  away  from  his  other  property,  his  mine, 
and  he  was  roused  to  a  pitch  of  nervous  excitement  that 
carried  him  beyond  the  caution  of  mental  balance  and 
yet  did  not  stimulate  him  to  the  abandon  of  actual  mad- 
ness. He  wanted  Bayard's  life  with  all  the  lust  that 
can  be  stirred  in  men  by  an  outraging  of  the  sense  of 
possession  and  the  passion  of  jealousy  .  .  .  beyond 
which  there  can  be  no  destroying  desire. 

No  other  sounds  came  from  the  house,  but  he  was 
satisfied  that  the  man  waiting  within  was  his  man  and 
he  skulked  from  the  brush,  choosing  his  footing  with 
care,  treading  on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  preventing  the 


26o  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

stiff  branches  from  slapping  noisily  together  by  his 
cautious  left  hand.  Slow,  cat-like  in  his  movements,  he 
covered  the  distance  to  the  cabin,  flinging  out  an  arm 
on  the  last  step  as  though  he  were  falling  and  with  it 
steadying  himself  against  the  log  wall  of  the  building, 
where  he  balanced  a  moment,  becoming  steady. 

He  strained  to  listen  and  caught  sounds  of  a  man's 
breath  expelled  in  grunts.  The  doorway  was  not  six 
feet  from  the  place  where  he  had  halted  and  he  eyed  it 
calculatingly,  noting  the  footing  he  must  cross,  licking 
his  lips,  eyes  strained  wide  open.  He  took  the  first 
step  forward  and  halted,  hand  against  the  wall  still 
to  maintain  his  balance;  then  on  again,  lifting  the 
foot  slowly,  setting  it  down  with  great  pains,  putting 
his  weight  on  it  carefully.  .   .  . 

And  then  nervous  tension  snapped.  He  could  no 
longer  hold  himself  back  and  with  a  lunge  he  reached 
the  door,  gripped  the  casing  with  his  left  hand  and, 
crouching,  swung  himself  into  the  doorway,  pistol  ex- 
tended before  him,  coming  to  a  halt  with  an  inarticu- 
late, sobbing  cry  that  might  have  been  hate  or  chagrin 
or  only  fright.  .  .  .  For  the  man  he  covered  with  that 
weapon  was  a  stranger,  an  individual  he  had  never 
seen  before,  sitting  in  a  chair,  back  to  him,  his  pale, 
startled  face  turned  over  the  near  shoulder,  giving  the 
intruder  frightened  gaze  for  frightened  gaze. 

For  a  moment  Lytton  remained  swaying  in  the  door- 
way, bewildered,  unable  to  think.  Then,  he  saw  that 
the  other  man  was  bound  to  his  chair,  his  hands  behind 


THE  FIGHT  261 

him,  and  he  let  go  his  hold  on  the  casing,  straightened 
and  put  one  foot  over  the  threshold.  He  spoke  the 
first  words, 

"  Who  are  you?  " —  in  a  tone  just  above  a  whisper, 
leaning  forward,  sensing  in  a  measure  an  explanation 
of  this  situation.  And  because  of  this  intuitive  flash 
of  comprehension,  he  did  not  give  the  other  oppor- 
tunity to  answer  his  first  question,  but  said  quickly, 
lowly,  "  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

Benny  looked  at  him,  studying,  a  covered  craftiness 
coming  into  his  face  to  obliterate  the  anxiety,  the  re- 
belliousness that  had  been  there.  His  semi-hysteria 
was  gone,  his  cold,  hard  determination  to  carry  his 
mission  to  its  conclusion  had  reasserted  itself  but  cov- 
ered, this  time,  by  cunning.  He  realized  what  had 
happened,  knew  that  Lytton  had  expected  to  find  an- 
other there,  he  saw  that  he  was  ready  to  kill  on  sight, 
and  in  the  situation  the  miner  read  a  way  out  for  him- 
self, a  method  of  attaining  his  own  ends.     So  he  said, 

"  I'm  takin'  a  little  rest;  can't  you  see?  " — ironical 
in  his  answer  to  Lytton's  question,  impatient  when  he 
put  his  own  counter  query. 

He  wrenched  at  the  bonds  angrily  and,  partly  from 
the  exertion,  partly  from  the  rage  that  rose  within  him, 
his  face  colored  darkly. 

Lytton  stepped  further  into  the  room,  approaching 
Lynch's  chair,  looking  closely  into  his  face,  gun  hand 
half  lowered. 

"  Who  tied  you  up?  "  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  for  his 


262  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

mind  was  centered  about  a  single  idea;  the  probable 
presence  of  Bayard  and  his  relation  to  this  man  who 
was  some  one's  prisoner. 

Benny  looked  down  at  the  floor  and  leaned  over  and 
again  tugged  at  the  knots  for  he  dared  not  reveal  his 
face  as  he  growled, 

"  A  damn  dirty  cowpunch!  " 

The  other  man  said  nothing;  waited,  obviously  for 
more  information. 

"  His  name's  Bayard,"  Benny  muttered. 

He  rendered  the  impression  that  he  regarded  that 
specific  information  as  of  no  consequence,  but  he  heard 
the  catch  of  a  sound  in  Lytton's  throat  and  saw  him 
shift  his  footing  nervously. 

"  How  long  ago?  "  he  asked. 

"  Too  damn  long  to  sit  here  like  this!  " — in  anger 
that  was  not  simulated,  for  with  every  word  that  passed 
between  them,  Benny  felt  his  reason  slipping,  felt  that 
if  this  situation  continued  long  enough  he  must  rise  with 
the  chair  bound  fast  to  him  and  try  to  do  harm  to  this 
other  man. 

uWhere'dhego?" 

Lytton  bent  low  as  he  whispered  excitedly  and  his 
gun  hand  hung  loosely  at  his  side. 

Benny  shook  his  head. 

"  I  dunno,"  he  said.  "  He  went  off  some'res,  but 
he  won't  be  gone  long,  that's  a  good  bet !  He  was  up 
to  somethin' —  God  knows  what.  Guess  he  thought 
I'd  spoil  it." 


THE  FIGHT  263 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  glitter  of  Lytton's  eyes. 

"Up  to  something  is  he?"  Lytton  laughed,  dryly, 
repeating  Lynch's  words.  "  Up  to  something!  He's 
always  up  to  something.  He's  been  up  to  something 
for  weeks,  the  wife  stealing  whelp  .  .  .  and  now  if  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about,  he's  up  against  some- 
thing! " 

"  Wife  stealer,  is  he?  "  Benny  laughed  as  he  put  that 
question  and  was  satisfied  when  he  saw  Ned's  jaw 
muscles  bulge.     "  That's  his  latest,  is  it?  " 

Lytton  looked  at  him  pointedly. 

"  You  know  him  pretty  well,  too?  "  he  asked. 

"  Know  him !  Do  I  know  him  ?  Look  at  this !  " — 
with  a  slight  lift  of  his  bound  hands.  "  That's  how 
much  I  know  him.  ...  I  seem  to  have  a  fair  enough 
acquaintance,  don't  I? 

"  Say,  hombre,  you  turn  me  loose  an'  set  here  an'  I'll 
pack  him  in  to  you  ...  on  my  back  ...  if  you're 
lookin'  for  him  that  way!  " 

Lytton  looked  quickly  about;  then  stood  still  to 
listen;  the  silence  was  not  broken  and  he  stared  back 
at  the  bound  man,  a  new  interest  in  his  face,  as  he 
framed  his  hasty  diplomacy. 

"  Do  you  mean  you've  .  .  .  got  a  fight  with  this 
man?     With  Bayard?  " 

Benny  moved  from  side  to  side  in  his  chair  and 
forced  a  laugh. 

"Have  I?"  he  scoffed.  "Have  I?  You  just 
wait  until  I  get  loose  an'  get  my  fingers  on  him.     You'll 


264  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

think  it's  a  fight,  party.  .  .  .  But  I'm  in  a  fine  way  to 
do  anythin'  now!  " 

He  looked  through  the  front  doorway,  out  down  the 
sharp  draw  that  the  trail  to  the  valley  followed.  Lyt- 
ton  stepped  nearer  to  him  and  as  he  spoke  his  voice  be- 
came eager  and  rapid, 

"  I've  a  quarrel  with  him,  too !  "  The  craven  in 
him  drove  him  forward  to  this  newly  offered  hope,  the 
hope  of  finding  an  ally,  some  one  to  share  his  burden 
of  responsibility,  some  one  he  could  hide  behind, 
some  one,  perhaps,  who  might  be  inveigled  into  doing 
his  fighting  for  him.  "  I  came  here  to  hunt  him 
down.  When  I  came  down  that  hill  there," — ges- 
turing— "I  thought  he  was  in  here  because  I  heard 
your  chair  move  on  the  floor.  When  I  jumped  through 
that  door  and  covered  you,  I  expected  he'd  be  here  and 
that  I'd  ... .  Well,  that  I'd  square  accounts  with 
him  for  good.  .   .   . 

"  I  don't  know  what  your  fight  with  him  is,  but  he's 
abused  you;  he's  got  you  hog-tied  now.  That  you've 
a  fight  of  some  sort  with  him  is  enough  for  me.  .  .  . 
Aren't  two  heads  better  than  one  ?  " —  insinuatingly. 

The  miner  forced  himself  to  meet  that  inquiring  gaze 
steadily,  but  his  expression  of  delight,  of  triumph, 
which  came  into  his  face  was  not  forced,  was  not 
counterfeit,  and  he  growled  quickly: 

"  I  don't  need  any  man's  help  in  my  fight  .  .  .  when 
I  got  an  even  chance.  My  troubles  are  my  own  an'  I'll 
tend  to  'em,  but,  if  you  want  to  do  me  a  favor,  you'll 


THE  FIGHT  265 

cut  these  damn  straps  .  .  .  you'll  give  me  a  chance  to 
fight,  man  to  man!  " 

He  did  not  lie  with  those  words;  his  inference  might 
have  been  deception  but  that  chance  to  fight  man  to 
man  was  the  dearest  privilege  he  could  have  been  of- 
fered. 

No  primitive  urge  to  punish  with  his  own  hands  a 
man  who  had  crossed  him  made  itself  paramount  with 
Lytton;  he  wanted  Bayard  to  suffer,  but  the  means  did 
not  matter.  If  he  could  cause  him  injury  and  avoid  the 
consequence  of  personal  accountability,  so  much  the 
better,  and  it  was  with  a  grunt  of  relief  and  triumph 
that  he  shoved  the  automatic  into  the  waist  band  of  his 
pants,  drew  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and  grasped  the 
tightly  knotted  straps. 

"  You  bet,  I'll  help  anybody  against  that  dirty  — 

"  Sit  still!  "  he  broke  off,  as  Benny,  quivering  with 
excitement,  strained  forward.  "  I'm  likely  to  cut  you 
if—" 

The  blade  slashed  through  the  leather.  Lynch 
floundered  to  his  feet,  free,  alone  in  the  room  with  the 
man  he  had  deliberately  planned  to  kill,  and  the  over- 
whelming sense  of  impending  achievement  swept  all 
caution  from  him. 

He  stumbled  a  step  or  two  forward  after  the  sud- 
denly parting  of  the  straps  set  him  free  and  then  turned 
about  to  face  Lytton,  who  stood  beside  the  chair  closing 
his  knife.  Behind  the  Easterner  was  the  cupboard  on 
which  Bayard  had  placed  Benny's  gun,  and  the  miner's 


266  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

first  idea  should  have  been  to  restrain  himself,  to  keep 
on  playing  a  strategic  game,  to  move  carefully,  de- 
liberately until  he  was  armed  and  could  safely  show  his 
hand. 

But  such  control  was  an  impossibility.  He  faced 
Ned  Lytton  who  stood  there  with  an  evil  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  all  the  love  for  his  dead  father,  all  the  out- 
raged sense  of  property  rights,  all  the  brooding,  the 
waiting,  the  accumulated  tension  caused  something  in 
him  to  swell  until  he  felt  a  choking  sensation,  until  the 
hate  came  into  his  face,  until  he  drew  his  clenched 
fists  upward  and  shook  his  head  and  bellowed  and 
charged,  madly,  blindly,  wanting  only  to  have  his 
hands  on  his  enemy,  to  take  his  life  as  the  first  men  took 
the  lives  of  those  who  had  done  them  wrong!  The 
feel  of  perishing  flesh  in  his  palms  .  .  .  that  was  what 
he  wanted ! 

With  a  shrill  cry  of  fright,  Lytton  saw  what  hap- 
pened. He  saw  the  change  come  over  the  face,  the 
body,  the  manner  of  this  man  before  him,  saw  Lynch 
gather  himself  for  the  rush  and,  whipping  his  hand 
down  to  his  stomach  as  he  backed  and  tried  to  run, 
he  clutched  for  the  weapon  that  would  defend  him 
from  this  new  foe. 

But  the  hand  did  not  close  on  the  pistol  butt  then. 
His  wrist  was  caught  in  the  clamp  of  incredibly  power- 
ful fingers  that  bound  about  it  and  wrenched  it  back- 
ward; the  other  hand  was  pinned  to  his  side  by  an  en- 
circling arm  and  the  breath  was  beaten  from  him  as 


THE  FIGHT  267 

Lynch's    impact    sent    them    crashing    into    the    wall. 

"You  will,  will  you?"  Benny  snarled  thickly. 
"  Cheat  an'  steal  an'   .  .  .  lie." 

They  strained  so  for  a  moment,  faces  close  together, 
the  eyes  of  the  miner  glittering  hate,  those  of  Lytton 
reflecting  the  mounting  fear,  that  possessed  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  screamed.  "You  .  .  .  you 
snake !  " 

"  I'm  Lynch  .  .  .  Lynch!  Son  of  an  old  man  you 
cheated  an'  killed!"  Benny  shouted.  "I've  waited 
for  years  for  this.  .  .  .  'T  was  Bayard,  th'  man  you 
hunted,  tied  me  up  so  I  couldn't  .  .  .  kill  you.  But 
you  .  .  .  walked  into  your  own  trap.  .  .  ." 

"Yousna— " 

Lytton's  word  was  cut  off  by  the  jerk  the  miner  gave 
him,  dragging  him  to  the  center  of  the  floor,  bending 
him  backward,  struggling  to  hold  him  with  one  hand 
and  secure  the  pistol  with  the  other.  Ned  screamed 
again  and  drew  his  knee  up  with  a  vigorous  snap,  jam- 
ming it  into  Benny's  stomach,  sending  the  breath  moan- 
ing from  him.  For  the  following  moment  Lytton  held 
the  upper  hand  but  Lynch  clung  to  him  instinctively,  un- 
thinkingly, wrapping  his  arms  and  legs  about  Ned's 
body  with  a  determination  to  save  himself  until  he 
could  beat  down  the  sickness  that  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him.  He  did  hold  on,  but  his  grip  had  lost 
some  of  its  strength  and,  when  his  vision  cleared  and 
his  mind  became  agile  again,  he  felt  Lytton's  hand  be- 
tween their  bodies,  knew  that  it  had  fastened  on  the 


268  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

weapon  it  had  been  seeking.  He  rallied  his  every 
force  to  overcome  that  handicap. 

Ned's  gun  hand  came  free  and  he  flung  himself 
sideways  in  an  effort  to  turn  and  yank  himself  from 
Lynch,  but  the  miner  closed  on  him,  caught  the  fore- 
arm again  in  a  mighty  clamp  of  fingers  and  swept  him 
smashing  against  the  one  window  of  the  room.  The 
glass  went  out  with  a  crash  and  a  jingle  and  the  tough, 
dry  wood  of  the  frame  snapped  with  a  succession  of 
sharp  reports.  Blood  gushed  down  Lytton's  cheek 
where  a  jagged  pane  had  scratched  the  flesh  as  it  fell 
and  Lynch  was  conscious  that  warm  moisture  spread 
over  his  own  upper  left  arm. 

The  Easterner  braced  against  the  window  sill  and 
grunted  and  squirmed  until  he  forced  his  adversary  back 
a  body's  breadth.  .  .  .  Then  he  kicked  sharply,  vi- 
ciously and  his  boot  toe  crunched  on  Lynch's  shin, 
sending  a  paralyzing  pain  through  the  limb.  They 
swirled  and  staggered  to  the  far  end  of  the  room  in 
their  struggles,  the  one  bent  on  holding  the  other's  body 
close  to  his  to  controvert  its  ceaseless  efforts  to  worm 
away;  and  above  their  heads  was  the  gun,  gripped  by 
fingers  that  were  in  turn  clinched  in  a  huge,  calloused 
palm  and  rendered  helpless. 

"  You  snake !  "  Lytton  cried  again,  and  flung  his 
head  up  sharply,  catching  Lynch  under  the  chin  with  a 
sharp  click  of  bone  on  bone. 

They  poised  an  instant  at  that,  lurched  clumsily 
against  the  stove  and  sent  it  toppling  from  its  legs  while 


THE  FIGHT  269 

the  pipe  sections  rattled  hollowly  down  about  them, 
and  a  cloud  of  soot  rose  to  fill  their  eyes.  They  lunged 
into  the  wall  again  and  hung  against  it  a  long,  straining 
moment,  breathless  in  their  efforts;  then,  grunting  as 
Lytton  wriggled  violently  to  escape,  Benny  steadily 
tightened  his  hold  on  him. 

Intervals  of  dogged  waiting  followed,  after  which 
came  frantic  contortions  as  they  lost  and  gathered 
strength  again.  Lytton's  face  was  covered  with  blood 
and  some  of  it  smeared  on  Lynch's  cheek.  Sweat  made 
their  flesh  glisten  and  then  became  mud  as  the  soot 
mantled  them.  Occasionally  one  called  out  in  a  curse, 
or  in  an  exclamation  of  pain,  but  much  of  the  time  their 
jaws  were  set,  their  lips  tight,  for  both  knew  that  this 
fight  was  to  the  end;  that  their  battle  could  finish  in  but 
one  of  two  ways. 

Each  time  they  faced  the  cupboard  Benny  shot  a 
glance  at  its  top.  His  gun  was  there;  to  reach  it  was 
his  first  hope,  but  he  dared  not  relinquish  for  a  frac- 
tional second  his  dogged  grip  on  the  other  man's  hand. 

Lytton  renewed  his  efforts,  kicking  and  bunting. 
They  waltzed  awkwardly  across  the  floor  on  a  diagonal 
and  Benny,  backing  swiftly  on  to  the  overturned  chair 
to  which  he  had  been  bound,  tripped  and  lost  his  bal- 
ance again.  They  went  down  with  mingled  cries,  Lyt- 
ton on  top.  For  an  instant  he  retained  the  position  and 
threatened  to  break  away,  but  Benny  rolled  over,  hook- 
ing the  other's  limbs  to  helplessness  with  his  own.  He 
withdrew  his  right  arm  from  about  Lytton's  waist  and 


270  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

grappled  for  the  man's  throat  while  Ned  writhed  and 
kicked,  flung  his  head  from  side  to  side  and  struck  des- 
perately with  his  own  free  fist  against  the  throttling 
fingers.  He  loosed  one  leg  and  threshed  it  frantically, 
found  a  bearing  point  against  the  wrecked  stove,  bowed 
his  body  with  a  wracking  effort  and  for  an  instant  was 
out  from  under,  restrained  only  by  the  hot,  hard  fingers 
about  his  gun  hand.  He  strove  to  reach  up  and  trans- 
fer the  pistol  to  his  left,  but  Benny  was  the  quicker  and 
they  rose  to  their  feet,  scrambling  and  snarling  as  they 
sought  fresh  holds. 

Lynch  had  the  advantage  of  weight  but  Lytton's 
agility  offset  the  handicap.  His  muscles  might  not  be 
able  to  endure  so  long  a  strain,  but  they  responded 
more  quickly  to  his  thoughts,  took  lightninglike  advan- 
tage of  any  opportunity  offered.  The  fact  enraged 
Benny  and,  giving  way  to  it,  he  called  on  his  precious 
reserve  of  energy  for  a  super  effort,  lifted  Ned  from 
his  feet  and  spun  about  as  though  he  would  dash  his 
body  against  the  wall.  But  Ned  met  this  new  move 
with  the  strength  of  the  frenzied,  and,  when  they  had 
made  three-quarters  of  the  turn,  Lynch  was  overbal- 
anced; he  stumbled,  lurched  and  with  a  crash  and  a 
rip  they  went  against  the  battered  old  cupboard. 

The  jolt  steadied  the  men,  but  the  big  fixture,  rock- 
ing slowly,  went  over  sideways  with  a  smash  of  break- 
ing dishes  and  a  rattling,  banging  of  pans.  And  from 
its  top,  spinning  and  sliding  across  the  cluttered  floor, 
went  Benny's  big  blue  Colt  gun. 


THE  FIGHT  271 

Both  men  saw  at  once  and  on  sight  of  that  other 
weapon  their  battle  became  reversed.  Lynch,  glassy 
eyed,  struggled  to  extricate  himself  now,  to  retain  his 
hold  on  Lytton's  hand  that  held  the  automatic,  but  to 
free  his  other,  to  stoop  and  recover  his  own  revolver. 
Ned  understood  fully  on  the  first  move.  He  wrenched 
repeatedly  to  gain  use  of  the  automatic,  but  he  clung 
with  arms  and  legs  and  teeth  to  Lynch  .  .  .  wher- 
ever he  could  find  purchase.  He  succeeded  at  first 
in  working  the  fight  back  into  a  corner  away  from  the 
revolver,  but  his  strength  was  not  lasting. 

Benny  redoubled  his  efforts  and  slowly  they  shifted 
again  toward  the  center  of  the  room  where  the  re- 
flected sunlight  made  the  blue  metal  of  the  Colt  glisten 
as  it  lay  in  the  wreckage.  They  both  breathed  aloud 
now  and  Lytton  moaned  at  each  acute  effort  he  made  to 
meet  and  check  his  enemy's  moves.  With  painful  slow- 
ness, with  ominous  steadiness,  they  made  back  toward 
Lynch's  objective,  inch  by  inch,  zigzagging  across  the 
floor,  hesitating,  swaying  backward,  but  always  keep- 
ing on.  The  violence  of  their  earlier  struggle  had  de- 
parted; they  were  more  deliberate,  more  cautious,  but 
the  equality  of  their  ability  had  gone.  Lytton  was 
yielding. 

Benny  got  to  within  four  feet  of  the  revolver,  gained 
another  hand's  breadth  by  a  strain  that  set  the  veins  of 
his  forehead  into  purple  welts.  He  bent  sideways, 
forcing  Ned's  right  hand  with  its  pistol  slowly  down  to- 
ward the  floor.     Then,  with  a  slip  and  a  scramble,  Lyt- 


272  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

ton  left  off  his  restraining  hold,  flung  himself  back- 
ward, spun  his  body  about  and  with  a  cry  of  despera- 
tion put  every  iota  of  energy  into  an  attempt  to  wrest 
his  right  hand  from  Benny's  clutch. 

Lynch  let  him  go,  but  with  a  motive;  for  as  he  re- 
leased his  grip,  he  swung  his  right  fist  mightily,  follow- 
ing it  with  the  whole  weight  of  his  falling  body.  The 
blow  caught  Lytton  on  the  back  of  the  neck,  staggered 
him,  sent  him  pitching  sideways  toward  the  doorway 
and  as  Lynch,  pouncing  to  the  floor  on  hands  and  knees, 
fastened  his  fingers  on  his  gun,  Ned  flashed  a  look  over 
his  shoulder,  saw,  knew  that  he  could  never  turn  and  fire 
in  time,  and  plunged  on  through  the  doorway,  falling 
face  downward  into  the  dust,  rolling  over  and  fronting 
about  .  .  .  out  of  the  miner's  sight  .  .  .  pistol  cover- 
ing the  door  and  broken  window  where  Benny  must  ap- 
pear ...  if  he  were  to  appear. 

And  the  miner,  within  the  ruined  room,  knees  bent, 
torso  doubled  forward,  gun  in  his  hand,  cocked,  up- 
lifted, waited  for  some  sound,  some  indication  from 
out  there.  None  came  and  he  straightened  slowly, 
backing  against  the  wall,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  eyes 
one  at  a  time  that  his  vigilance  might  not  be  relaxed, 
gun  ready  to  belch  the  instant  Lytton  should  show  him- 
self ...  if  he  were  to  show  himself. 

So  they  watched,  hidden  from  one  another,  each 
knowing  that  his  enemy  waited  only  for  him  to  make  a 
move,  each  aware  that  he  could  not  bring  the  other  into 
range  without  exposing  himself.     After  the  bang  and 


THE  FIGHT  273 

clatter  of  their  hand  to  hand  struggle,  the  silence  was 
oppressive,  and  Benny,  head  turned  to  catch  the  slight- 
est sound,  thought  that  he  could  hear  the  quick  come 
and  go  of  Lytton's  breath. 

The  man  inside  quivered  with  impatience;  the  one 
who  waited  in  that  white  sunlight  cowered  and  paled  as 
the  flush  of  exertion  ebbed  from  his  daubed  face. 
Benny,  whose  whole  purpose  in  life  centered  about 
squaring  his  account,  as  he  saw  it,  with  the  man  out- 
side yearned  to  show  himself,  but  held  back,  not 
through  fear  of  harm,  but  because  he  knew  that  the  ful- 
fillment of  his  mission  depended  wholly  upon  his  own 
bodily  welfare.  Lytton,  quailing  before  the  actual 
presence  of  great  danger,  of  meeting  a  foe  on  equal 
footing,  of  fighting  without  resort  to  surprise  or 
fouling,  wanted  to  be  away,  to  be  quit  of  the  place 
at  any  cost.  He  would  have  run  for  it,  but  he  knew 
that  the  sounds  of  his  movements  would  bring  Lynch  on 
his  heels.  He  would  have  attempted  to  get  away  by 
stealth  but  he  feared  that  he  might  encounter  Bayard 
in  any  direction.  He  did  not  stop  to  think  that  he  had 
no  reason  for  fearing  the  cowman;  his  very  guilt,  his 
subconscious  disrespect  of  self,  made  him  regard  an 
open  meeting  with  Bruce  as  one  of  danger. 

So  for  many  minutes,  the  tension  of  the  situation  be- 
coming greater,  more  unbearable  with  each  pulse  beat. 

Then  sounds  —  faint  at  first.  The  rattle  of  a 
stone  rolling  over  rock,  the  distant  swish  of  brush.  A 
silent  interval,   followed  by  the  sound  of  a  gasping 


274  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

cough;  then,  the  faint,  clear  ring  of  a  spur  as  the  boot 
to  which  it  was  strapped  set  itself  firmly  on  solid  foot- 
ing. 

Within  the  house  Lynch  could  not  hear,  but  Lytton, 
alert  to  every  possibility,  dreading  even  the  sound  of 
his  own  breathing,  turned  his  head  sharply.  .  .   . 

There,  below,  making  up  the  trail  as  fast  as  his  ex- 
hausted limbs  could  carry  him,  came  Bruce  Bayard,  hat 
in  one  hand,  arms  swinging  widely  as  he  strained  to 
climb  faster.  He  turned  an  angle  of  the  trail  and  for 
the  space  of  thirty  yards  the  way  led  across  a  ledge  of 
smooth,  flat  rock,  screened  by  no  trees  and  bearing  no 
vegetation  whatever. 

Fear  again  retreated  from  Lytton's  heart  before  a 
fresh  rush  of  wrath  that  blinded  him  and  made  him 
heedless.  He  whirled,  leaving  off  his  watching  of  the 
cabin  door  and  window.  His  gun  hand  came  up, 
slowly,  carefully,  while  he  gritted  his  teeth  to  steady  his 
muscles.  He  sighted  with  care,  bringing  all  his  knowl- 
edge of  marksmanship  to  bear  that  there  should  be  no 
error,  that  no  possible  luck  of  Bayard's  should  avail 
him  anything.   ... 

And  from  above  and  behind  the  cabin  rose  a 
woman's  voice : 

"  Look  out,  Bruce !  " 

Just  those  words,  but  the  bell-like  quality  of  the  voice 
itself,  the  horror  in  its  shrill  tone  carrying  sharply  to 
them,  echoing  and  re-echoing  down  the  gulch,  struck  a 
chill  to  the  hearts  of  three  men. 


THE  FIGHT  275 

The  words  had  not  left  Ann's  lips  before  the  auto- 
matic in  Ned's  hand  leaped  and  flashed  and  the  echo  of 
the  woman's  warning  cry  was  followed  by  the  smashing 
reverberations  of  the  shot.  But  her  scream  had 
availed;  it  had  sent  a  tremor  through  Lytton's  body 
even  as  he  fired,  and,  as  Bayard  halted  abruptly  in  the 
center  of  the  open  space  without  barrier  before  him  or 
weapon  with  which  to  answer,  absolutely  at  Lytton's 
mercy,  his  hat  was  torn  from  his  left  hand. 

"  You  whelp !  "  Ned  cried,  and  on  the  word  took  one 
more  step  forward,  halted,  dropped  the  weapon  on  its 
mark  again  and  paused  for  the  merest  fraction  of  time. 
His  muscles  became  plastic,  as  steady  as  stone  under 
the  strain  of  this  crisis.  He  did  not  hear  the  quick  step 
on  the  kitchen  floor,  he  could  not  see  Benny  Lynch  half 
fall  through  the  doorway,  but  when  the  miner's  gun, 
held  stiffly  out  from  his  hip,  roared  and  belched  and  re- 
mained steady,  ready  to  shoot  again,  Ned  lowered  the 
weapon  just  a  trifle. 

A  queer,  strained  grin  came  over  his  face  and,  stand- 
ing erect,  he  turned  his  head  stiffly,  jerkily  toward 
Benny  who  stood  crouched  and  waiting.  Then,  very 
slowly,  almost  languidly,  his  gun  hand  lowered  itself. 
When  it  was  almost  beside  his  thigh,  the  fingers  opened 
and  the  pistol  dropped  with  a  light  thud  to  the  earth. 
Ned  lifted  the  other  hand  to  his  chest  and  still  grinning, 
as  if  a  joke  had  been  made  at  his  expense  which  quite 
embarrassed  him,  he  let  his  knees  bend  as  though  he 
would  kneel.     He  did  not  follow  out  the  movement. 


276  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

He  wilted  and  fell.     He  tried  to  sit  up,  feebly,  impo- 
tently.     Then,  he  lay  back  with  a  quick  sigh. 

The  other  two  men  stood  fixed  for  a  moment. 
Then,  with  a  cry,  Bayard  started  up  the  slope  at  a  run. 
He  did  not  look  again  at  Benny,  did  not  know  that  the 
miner  walked  slowly  forward  to  where  Lytton  had 
fallen.  All  he  saw  was  the  figure  of  a  hatless  woman, 
face  covered  with  her  hands,  leaning  against  a  great 
boulder  twenty  yards  above  the  cabin,  and  he  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  her  during  one  step  of  the  flounder- 
ing run. 

"  Ann !  "  he  called,  as  he  drew  near.     "  Ann !  " 

She  turned  with  a  quick,  terrified  movement  and 
looked  at  him.  He  saw  that  her  face  was  a  mask,  her 
eyes  feverishly  dry. 

"He  didn't—" 

"  No,  Ann,  he  didn't,"  he  answered,  taking  her  hands 
in  his,  his  voice  unsteady.  "  Benny  ...  he  fired  last 
.  .  .  an'  there'll  be  no  more  shootin'.  .  .  ." 

She  swayed  toward  him. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  she  began,  brushing  the  hair  out  of 
her  eyes  with  the  back  of  one  hand. 

"  An'  I  came,  Ann." 

"  I  ...  It  was  only  chance  .  .  .  that  I  saw  him 
and  .  .  .  screamed.  .   .  ." 

"  But  you  did;  an'  it  saved  me." 

"  I  sent  for  you,  Bruce.  .   .  .  To  take  me  away  .  .  . 
from  Ned.  .  .   .  To  take  me  away  from  him  .  .  . 
with  you.  ..." 


THE  FIGHT  277 

She  stepped  closer  and  with  a  quivering  sigh  lifted 
her  arms  wearily  and  clasped  them  about  his  neck, 
while  Bayard,  heart  pounding,  gathered  her  body  close 
against  his  as  the  tears  came  and  great  convulsions  of 
grief  shook  her. 

'  He  leaned  back  against  the  rock,  holding  her  entire 
weight  in  his  arms,  and  they  were  there  for  minutes,  his 
lips  caressing  her  hair,  her  temples,  her  cheeks.  Her 
crying  quieted,  and,  when  she  no  longer  sobbed  aloud, 
he  turned  his  head  to  look  downward. 

Benny  Lynch  was  just  then  straightening  from  a 
stooping  posture  beside  Lytton.  He  turned  away,  took 
a  cartridge  from  his  belt,  slipped  it  into  the  chamber 
from  which  the  empty  piece  of  smoky  brass  had  been 
removed  and  shoved  the  gun  back  into  his  holster.  As 
it  went  home,  he  looked  down  at  it  curiously,  stared  a 
moment,  drew  it  out  again  and  examined  it  slowly,  first 
one  side,  then  the  other.  He  shook  his  head  and 
threw  the  weapon  down  the  gulch,  where  it  clattered 
on  the  rocks.  After  that,  he  walked  toward  the 
house,  and  about  his  movements  was  an  indication  of 
the  sense  of  finality,  of  accomplishment,  that  filled 
him. 

"  I'll  take  you  away,  Sweetheart,"  Bayard  whispered, 
gently.  "  But  it  won't  be  necessary  to  take  you  .  .  . 
away  from  Ned.   .   .   ." 

She  shrank  closer  against  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   TRAILS    UNITE 

So  it  was  that  Ned  Lytton  ceased  to  be  and  with 
his  going  went  all  barriers  that  had  existed  between 
Ann  and  Bruce.  Each  had  played  a  part  in  the  grim 
drama  which  ended  with  violence,  yet  to  neither  could 
any  echo  of  blame  for  Ned's  death  be  attached.  Their 
hands  and  hearts  were  clean. 

Ann's  appeal  to  Bruce  for  help  when  Ned  led  her 
away  from  the  ranch  had  been  made  because  she  knew 
that  real  danger  of  some  sort  awaited  Ned  at  the  Sun- 
set mine;  she  had  not  considered  herself  or  her  own 
safety  at  all. 

Bruce,  for  his  part,  had  concentrated  his  last  energy 
on  averting  the  tragedy.  He  had  looked  for  the  mo- 
ment on  his  love  of  Ann  only  as  a  factor  which  had 
helped  bring  about  the  crisis,  thereby  making  him  ac- 
countable. To  play  the  game  as  he  saw  it,  to  be 
squared  with  his  own  conscience,  he  had  risked  every- 
thing, even  his  life,  in  his  attempt  to  save  Lytton. 

Ned's  true  self  had  come  to  the  surface  just  long 
enough  to  answer  all  questions  that  might  have  been 
raised  after  his  death.  In  that  last  experience  of  his 
life  he  had  risen  above  his  cowardice.     After  hearing 

278 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  279 

Ann's  warning  scream,  he  must  have  known  that  to  fire 
on  Bayard  the  second  time  meant  his  own  death.  Yet 
he  was  not  dissuaded,  just  kept  on  attempting  to  satiate 
his  lust  for  the  rancher's  life.  So,  utterly  revealed,  he 
died. 

The  fourth  individual  was  to  be  considered  —  Benny 
Lynch.  Through  the  months  that  he  had  brooded 
over  the  injustice  which  sent  his  father  to  a  quick  end, 
through  the  weeks  that  he  had  planned  to  administer  his 
own  justice,  through  the  straining  days  that  he  had 
waited  to  kill,  a  part  of  him  had  been  stifled.  That 
part  was  the  kindly,  deliberate,  peace  loving  Benny, 
and  so  surely  as  he  was  slow  to  anger  he  would  have 
lived  to  find  himself  tortured  by  regret  had  he  slain  for 
revenge.  As  it  was,  he  shot  to  save  the  life  of  a 
friend  .  .  .  and  only  that.  He  lived  to  thank  the 
scheme  of  things  that  had  called  on  him  to  untangle  the 
skein  which  events  had  snarled  about  Bruce  and  the 
woman  he  loved  .  .  .  for  it  took  from  him  the  stain  of 
killing  for  revenge. 

Somehow,  Bruce  got  Ann  away  from  the  Sunset  mine 
that  day.  She  was  brave  and  struggled  to  bear  up,  but 
after  the  strain  of  those  last  weeks  the  fatigue  of  the 
ride  Ned  had  forced  her  to  take  unnerved  her  and  she 
was  like  a  child  when  they  gained  the  Boyd  ranch 
where  she  was  taken  to  the  maternal  arms  of  the 
mistress  of  that  house,  to  be  petted  and  cried  over  and 
comforted. 

In   his   rattling,   jingling  buckboard   Judson   Weyl 


28o  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

drove  out  to  the  mining  camp  and  beside  a  rock-cov- 
ered grave  murmured  a  prayer  for  the  soul  which 
had  gone  out  from  the  body  buried  there;  when  he 
drove  away,  his  chin  was  higher,  his  face  brighter, 
reflecting  the  thought  within  him  that  an  ugly  past 
must  be  forgotten,  that  the  future  assured  those  qual- 
ities which  would  make  it  forgettable. 

News  of  the  killing  roused  Yavapai.  In  the  first 
hour  the  community's  attention  was  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  actual  affair  at  the  mine,  but,  as  the  story  lost  its 
first  edge  of  interest,  inquisitive  minds  commenced  to 
follow  it  backward,  to  trace  out  the  steps  which  had  led 
to  the  tragedy. 

Ann's  true  identity  became  known.  The  fact  that 
Bayard  had  sheltered  Lytton  was  revealed.  After 
that  the  gossip  mongers  insinuated  and  speculated. 
No  one  had  known  what  was  going  on;  when  men  hide 
their  relationships  with  others  and  with  women  it  must 
be  necessary  to  hide  something,  they  argued. 

And  then  the  clergyman,  waiting  for  this,  came  for- 
ward with  his  story.  He  had  known;  his  wife  had 
known.  Nora,  the  girl  who  had  gone,  had  known. 
No,  there  had  been  no  deception  in  Bayard's  attitude; 
merely  discretion.  With  that  the  talk  ceased,  for 
Yavapai  looked  up  to  its  clergy. 

Within  the  fortnight  Ann  boarded  a  train  bound  for 
the  East.  Her  face  had  not  regained  its  color,  but  the 
haunted  look  was  gone  from  her  eyes,  the  tensity 
from  about  her  lips.     She  was  in  a  state  of  mental 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  281 

and  spiritual  convalescence,  with  hope  and  happiness  in 
sight  to  hasten  the  process  of  healing.  Going  East  for 
the  purpose  of  explaining,  of  making  what  amends  she 
could  for  Ned's  misdeeds,  was  an  ordeal,  but  she  wel- 
comed it  for  it  was  the  last  condition  she  deemed  neces- 
sary to  set  her  free. 

"  It  won't  be  long,"  she  said,  assuringly,  when  Bruce 
stood  before  her  to  say  farewell,  forlorn  and  lonely 
looking  already. 

"  It  can't  be  too  quick,"  he  answered. 

"  Impatient?  " 

"  I'd  wait  till  '  th'  stars  grow  old  an'  th'  sun  grows 
cold,'  "  he  quoted  with  his  slow  smile,  "  but  ...  it 
wouldn't  be  a  pleasant  occupation." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  You  might;  you  could,"  she  whispered,  "but  / 
wouldn't  wait  .  .  .  that  long.  .  .  ." 

Weeks  had  passed  and  October  was  offering  its  last 
glorious  days.  Not  with  madly  colored  leaves  and 
lazy  hazes  of  Indian  summer  that  are  gifts  to  men  in 
the  hardwood  belt,  but  with  the  golden  light,  the  infi- 
nite distances,  the  super  silence  which  comes  alone  to 
Northern  Arizona.  The  green  was  gone  from  grasses 
and  those  trees  which  drop  their  foliage  were  clothed 
only  in  the  withered  remains  of  leaves,  but  color  of 
incredible  variety  was  there  —  the  mauves,  the  laven- 
dars,  the  blues  and  purples  and  ochres  of  rock  and  soil, 
changing  with  the  swinging  sun,  becoming  bold  and 


282  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

vivid  or  only  a  tint  and  modest  as  the  light  rays  played 
across  the  valley  from  various  angles.  The  air,  made 
crystal  by  the  crisp  nights,  brought  within  the  eyes' 
register  ranges  and  peaks  that  were  of  astonishing  dis- 
tance. The  wind  was  most  gentle,  coming  in  leisurely 
breaths  and  between  its  sighs  the  silence  was  immacu- 
late, ravished  by  no  jar  or  hum;  even  the  birds  were 
subdued  before  it. 

On  a  typical  October  morning,  before  the  sun  had 
shoved  itself  above  the  eastern  reaches  of  the  valley, 
two  men  awoke  in  the  new  bunkhouse  that  had  been 
erected  at  the  Circle  A  ranch.  They  were  in  opposite 
beds,  and,  as  they  lifted  their  heads  and  stared  hard 
at  one  another  with  that  momentary  bewilderment 
which  follows  the  sleep  of  virile,  active  men,  the  shorter 
flung  back  his  blankets  and  swung  his  feet  to  the  floor. 
He  rubbed  his  tousled  hair  and  yawned  and  stretched. 

"  Awake !  "  he  said,  sleepily,  and  shook  himself, 
".  .  .  awake," — brightening.  "Awake,  for  'tis  thy 
weddin'  morn!  " 

The  speaker  was  Tommy  Clary  and  on  his  words 
Bruce  Bayard  grinned  happily  from  his  pillow. 

"  .  .  .  weddin'  morn  .  .  ."  he  murmured,  as  he  sat 
up  and  reached  for  his  boots  at  the  head  of  his  bunk. 

"  Yes,  you  wake  up  this  mornin',  frisky  an'  young  an' 
full  of  th'  love  of  life  an'  liberty,  just  like  them  pictures 
of  th'  New  Year  comin'  in !  An'  by  sundown  you'll  be 
roped  an'  tied  for-good-an'-for-all-by-God,  an'  t'  won't 
be  long  before  you  look  like  th'  old  year  goin'  out!  " 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  283 

*  He  grinned,  as  he  drew  on  his  shirt,  then  dodged,  as 
Bayard's  heavy  hat  sailed  at  him. 

"  It's  goin'  to  be  th'  other  way  round,  Tommy,"  the 
big  fellow  cried.  "  We're  going  to  turn  time  back- 
ward to-day!  " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  you  are,  all  right,"  deliberated 
Tommy.  "  Marriage  has  always  seemed  to  me  like 
payin'  taxes  for  somethin'  you  owned  or  goin'  to  jail 
for  havin'  too  much  fun;  always  like  payin'  for  some- 
thin'.     But  yourn  ain't.     Not  much." 

Bruce  laughed.  They  talked  in  a  desultory  way  un- 
til they  had  dressed.  Then  Bayard  walked  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  where  a  sheet  had  been  tacked 
and  hung  down  over  bulky  objects.  He  pulled  it  aside 
and  stood  back  that  Tommy  might  see  the  clothing  that 
hung  against  the  wall. 

"  How's  that  for  raiment?  "  he  demanded. 

Tommy  approached  and  lifted  the  skirt  of  the  black 
sack  coat  gingerly,  critically.  He  turned  it  back,  in- 
spected the  lining  and  then  put  his  hand  to  his  lips  to 
signify  shock. 

"Oh,  my  gosh,  Bruce!  Silk  linin'1  You'll  be 
curlin'  your  hair  next!  " 

"  Nothing  too  good  for  this  fracus,  Tommy.  Best 
suit  of  clothes  I  could  get  made  in  Prescott.  Those 
shoes  —  patent  leather !  "  He  picked  up  one  and  blew 
a  fleck  of  dust  from  it  carefully.  "  Cost  th'  price  of  a 
pair  of  boots  an'  don't  look  like  they'd  wear  a  mile." 
He  reached  into  the  pocket  of  the  coat  and  drew  out  a 


284  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

small  package,  unrolling  it  to  display  a  necktie. 
"  Pearl  gray,  they  call  it,  Tommy.  An'  swell  as  a  city 
bartender's!"  He  waved  it  in  triumph  before  the 
sparkling  eyes  of  his  pug-nosed  friend. 

"  Gosh,  Bruce,  you're  goin'  to  be  done  out  like  a  buck 
peacock,  clean  from  your  toes  up.     You  — 

"  Say,  what  are  you  goin'  to  wear  on  your  head?  " 

Bayard's  hand  dropped  to  his  side  and  a  crestfallen 
look  crossed  his  features. 

"  I'm  a  sheepherder,  if  I  didn't  forget,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

"  Holy  Smoke,  Bruce,  you  can't  wear  an  ordinary 
cowpuncher  hat  with  them  varnished  shoes  an'  that 
there  necktie  an'  that  dude  suit!  " 

"  I  guess  I'll  have  to,  or  go  bareheaded." 

Tommy  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  he  thought  that 
this  oversight  mattered,  and  his  simple,  loyal  heart  was 
touched. 

"  Never  mind,  Bruce,"  he  consoled.  "  It'll  be  all 
right,  prob'ly.     She  won't  — " 

"  You  go  out  and  make  me  a  crown  of  mistletoe, 
Tommy.  Why,  she  wouldn't  like  me  not  to  be  some- 
thin'  of  my  regular,  everyday  self.  She'll  like  these 
clothes,  but  she'll  like  my  old  hat,  too!  " 

Tommy  seemed  to  be  relieved. 

"  Yes,  maybe  she  will,"  he  agreed.  "  She's  kinda 
sensible,  Bruce.  She  ain't  th'  kind  of  a  woman  to  jump 
her  weddin'  'cause  of  a  hat." 

Bayard,  in  a  sudden  ecstasy  of  animal  spirits,  picked 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  285 

the  small  cowboy  up  in  his  arms  and  tossed  him  toward 
the  ceiling,  as  if  he  were  a  child,  and  stopped  only  when 
Tommy  wound  his  arms  about  his  neck  in  a  strangling 
clasp. 

"  Le'me  down,  an'  le'me  show  you  my  outfit!  "  he 
cried.  "  Don't  get  stuck  on  yourself  an'  think  you're 
goin'  to  be  th'  only  city  feller  at  this  party!  " 

Breathlessly  Bayard  laughed  as  he  put  him  down  and 
followed  him  to  the  bunk  where  he  had  slept  with  his 
war-bag  for  a  pillow.  Tommy  seated  himself,  lifted 
the  sack  to  his  lap  and,  with  fingers  to  his  lips  for 
silence,  untied  the  strings. 

"  Levi's!  "  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  as  he  drew  out  a 
pair  of  brand  new  overalls  and  shook  them  out  proudly. 
"  I  ain't  a  reg'lar  swell  like  you  are,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  but  even  if  I  am  poor  I  wear  clean  pants  at  wed- 
din's!" 

He  groped  in  the  bag  again  and  drew  out  a  scarf  of 
gorgeous  pink  silk. 

"  Ain't  that  a  eligent  piece  of  goods?  "  he  demanded, 
holding  it  out  in  the  early  sunlight. 

"  It  is  that,  Tommy!  " 

"  But  that  ain't  all.     Hist!" 

He  shifted  about,  hiding  the  bag  behind  his  body  that 
the  surprise  might  be  complete.  Then,  with  a  swift 
movement  he  held  aloft  proudly  a  stiff-bosomed  shirt. 

"Ah!"  he  breathed  as  it  was  revealed  entirely. 
"  How's  that  for  tony?  " 

"That's  great!" 


286  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

"  Reg'lar  armor  plate,  Bruce !  I've  gentled  th' 
damn  thing,  too !  Worked  with  him  'n  hour  yester- 
day. He  bucked  an'  rared  an'  tried  to  fall  over  back- 
wards with  me,  but  I  showed  him  reason  after  a  while ! 
Just  proves  that  if  a  man  sets  his  mind  on  anythin'  he 
can  do  it  .   .  .  even  if  it's  bein'  swell!  " 

Bruce  laughed  his  assent  and  remarked  to  himself 
that  the  array  of  smudgy  thumb  prints  about  the  collar 
band  was  eloquent  evidence  of  the  struggle  poor 
Tommy  had  experienced. 

"  But  this!  "  the  other  breathed,  plunging  again  into 
the  bag.     "  This  here  is  — " 

He  broke  short.  "Why,  you  pore  son-of-a-gun !  " 
he  whispered  as  he  produced  his  collar. 

Originally  it  had  been  a  three-inch  poke  collar,  but  it 
was  bent  and  broken  and  smeared  on  one  side  with  a 
broad  patch  of  dirty  brown. 

"  Gosh  a'mighty,  Tommy,  you've  gone  an'  crippled 
your  collar!  "  Bruce  said  in  rebuke. 

"  Crippled  is  right,  an'  that  ain't  all !  Kind  of  a  sick 
lookin'  pinto,  he  is,  with  that  bay  spot  on  him."  He 
looked  up  foolishly.  "  I  ought  to  put  that  plug  in  my 
pocket.  You  see,  I  rode  out  fast,  an'  this  collar  an'  my 
eatin'  tobacco  was  in  th'  bottom  of  th'  bag  tied  on  be- 
hind my  saddle.  Nig  sweat  an'  it  soaked  through  an' 
wet  th' tobacco  an'   .  .   .  desecrated  my  damn  collar !  " 

He  rose  resolutely. 

"  A  li'l  thing  like  that  can't  make  me  quit !  "  he  cried. 
"  I  rode  this  here  thing  with  its  team-mate  yesterday. 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  287 

I  won't  be  stampeded  by  no  change  in  color.  I've  done 
my  family  wash  in  every  stream  between  th'  Spanish 
Peaks  an'  California.     I  won't  stop  at  this!  " 

He  strode  from  the  bunk  house  and  Bruce,  looking 
through  the  window,  saw  him  lift  a  bucket  of  water 
from  the  well  and  commence  to  scrub  his  daubed  collar 
vigorously. 

Smoke  rose  from  the  chimney  of  the  ranch  house  and 
through  the  kitchen  doorway  Bayard  saw  a  woman  pass 
with  quick,  intent  stride.  It  was  Mrs.  Boyd.  She  and 
Mrs.  Weyl  had  arrived  the  day  before  to  set  the  house 
aright  and  to  deck  the  rooms  in  mountain  greenery  — 
mistletoe,  juniper  berries  and  other  decorative  growth. 

The  new  bunkhouse,  erected  when  plans  for  the  wed- 
ding were  first  made,  had  been  occupied  for  the  first 
time  by  Bruce  and  Tommy  that  night.  Tommy  was  to 
return  in  the  spring  and  put  his  war-bag  under  the  bunk 
for  good,  because  Bruce  was  going  in  for  more  cattle 
and  would  be  unable  to  handle  the  work  alone. 

A  half  hour  later  the  men  presented  themselves  for 
breakfast,  to  be  utterly  ignored  by  the  bustling  women. 
They  were  given  coffee  and  steak  and  made  to  sit  on  the 
kitchen  steps  while  they  ate,  that  they  might  not  be  in 
the  way.  Bruce  was  amused  and  rebuked  the  women 
gently  for  the  seriousness  with  which  they  went  about 
their  work,  but  for  Tommy  the  whole  procedure  was  a 
grave  matter.  He  ate  distractedly,  hurriedly,  covering 
his  embarrassment  by  astonishing  gastronomic  feats, 
glancing   sidelong   at   Bayard   whenever   the    rancher 


288  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

spoke  to  the  others,  as  though  those  scarcely  heeded  re- 
marks were  something  which  made  heavy  demands 
upon  human  courage. 

The  interior  of  the  house  had  been  changed  greatly. 
The  kitchen  range  was  new,  the  walls  were  papered  in- 
stead of  covered  with  whitewash.  The  room  in  which 
Ned  Lytton  had  slept  and  fretted  and  come  back  to- 
ward health  was  no  longer  a  bed  chamber.  Its  win- 
dows had  been  increased  to  four  that  the  light  might  be 
of  the  best.  Its  floor  was  painted  and  carpeted  with 
new  Navajo  blankets  and  a  bear  skin.  A  piano  stood 
against  one  wall  and  on  either  side  of  the  new  fireplace 
were  shelves  weighted  with  books  that  were  to  be 
opened  and  read  and  discussed  by  the  light  of  the  new 
reading  lamp  which  stood  on  the  heavy  library  table. 

Tommy  was  obviously  relieved  when  his  meal  was 
finished.  He  drew  a  long  sigh  when,  wiping  his  mouth 
on  a  jumper  sleeve,  he  stepped  from  the  house  and 
followed  Bruce  toward  the  corral  where  the  saddle 
horses  ate  hay. 

"  It's  a  wonder  you  ain't  ruined  that  horse,  th'  way 
you  baby  him,"  Clary  remarked,  when  Bayard,  brush 
in  hand,  commenced  grooming  Abe's  sleek  coat. 
"  Now,  with  my  Nig  horse  there,  I  figure  that  if  he's 
full  inside,  he's  had  his  share.  I'm  afraid  that  if  I 
brushed  him  every  day  he'd  get  dudish  an'  unreliable, 
like  me.  .  .  .  I'm  ready  to  do  a  lot  of  rarin'  an'  run- 
nin'  every  time  I  get  good  an'  clean !  " 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  289 

"  I  guess  th'  care  Abe's  had  hasn't  hurt  him  much," 
Bruce  replied.  "  He  was  ready  when  the  pinch  came; 
th'  groomin'  I'd  been  givin'  him  didn't  have  much  to  do 
with  it,  I  know,  but  th'  fact  that  we  were  pals  .  .  . 
that  counted." 

His  companion  sobered  and  answered. 

"  You're  right,  there,  Bruce,  he  sure  done  some  tall 
travelin'  that  day." 

"  If  he  hadn't  been  ready  ...  we  wouldn't  be  plan- 
nin'  a  weddin'  this  noon.  That's  how  much  it 
counted!  " 

Tommy  moved  closer  and  twined  his  fingers  in  the 
sorrel's  mane.  Neither  spoke  for  a  moment;  then 
Clary  blurted: 

"  She's  got  th'  same  kind  of  stuff,  Bruce,  or  she 
wouldn't  come  through  neither.  Abe  made  th'  run  of 
his  life  and  wasn't  hurt  by  it;  she  went  through  about 
four  sections  of  hell  an'.  .  .  .  She  looked  like  a  Texas 
rose  when  she  got  off  th'  train  last  week!  " 

Bayard  rapped  the  dust  from  his  brush  and  an- 
swered: 

"  You're  right;  they're  alike,  Tommy.  It  takes 
heart,  courage,  to  go  through  things  that  Ann  an'  Abe 
went  through  .  .  .  different  kinds.  It  wasn't  so  much 
what  happened  at  th'  mine.  It  was  th'  years  she'd  put 
in,  abused,  fearin',  tryin'  not  to  hate.  That  was  what 
took  th'  sand,  th'  nerve.  If  she  hadn't  been  th'  right 
sort,  she'd  have  crumpled  up  under  it." 


290  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

Clary  said  nothing  for  a  time  but  eyed  Bruce  care- 
fully, undisguised  affection  in  his  scrutiny.  Then  he 
spoke, 

"  My  guess  is  that  you  two'll  set  a  new  pace  on  this 
here  trail  to  happiness!  " 
• 

The  forenoon  dragged.  Bruce  completed  the  small 
tasks  of  morning  and  hunted  for  more  duties  to  occupy 
his  hands.  The  women  would  not  allow  him  in  the 
house,  and  beneath  his  controlled  exterior  he  was  in  a 
fury  of  impatience.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced 
speculatively  at  the  sun;  then  referred  to  his  watch  to 
affirm  his  judgment  of  the  day's  growth. 

Ann  was  still  at  the  Boyd  ranch  and  old  Hi  was  to 
drive  her  to  her  new  home  before  noon.  Judson  Weyl, 
who  was  to  marry  them,  had  been  called  away  the  day 
before  but  had  given  his  word  that  he  would  leave 
Yavapai  in  time  to  reach  the  ranch  with  an  ample  mar- 
gin, for  Bruce  insisted  that  there  be  no  hitch  in  the 
plans.  Long  before  either  was  due  the  big  rancher 
frequently  scanned  the  country  to  the  north  and  east  for 
signs  of  travelers. 

"  You're  about  as  contented  as  a  hen  with  a  lost 
chicken,"  Tommy  observed. 

Bruce  smiled  slightly  and  scratched  his  chin. 

"  Well,  I'd  hate  to  have  anything  delay  this 
round-up." 

Another  hour  dragged  out  before  his  repeated  gaz- 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  291 

ing  was  rewarded.  Then,  off  in  the  east,  a  smudge  of 
dust  resolved  itself  into  a  team  and  wagon. 

"  That's  Hi  with  Ann!  "  he  said  excitedly.  "  Our 
sky  pilot  ought  to  be  here  soon." 

"  Lots  of  time  yet,"  Tommy  assured.  "  He  won't 
be  leavin'  town  for  a  couple  of  hours." 

"  Maybe  not,  Tommy,  but  I  don't  trust  that  chariot 
of  fire.  I'm  afraid  it'll  give  its  death  rattle  almost  any 
time,  dump  our  parson  in  th'  road  an'  stop  our  weddin'. 
That'dbebad!" 

Tommy  roused  to  the  dire  possibilities  of  the  situa- 
tion. 

"  It  would,"  he  agreed.  "  It  takes  a  preacher,  a 
fool  or  a  brave  man  to  trust  himself  in  a  ve-hicle  like 
that.     He  ought  to  come  horseback.     He  — 

"  Say,  Bruce,  why  can't  I  saddle  up  an'  lead  a  horse 
in  after  him?  I  can  make  it  easy.  That'd  keep  you 
from  worryin'.  Matter  of  fact,  between  th'  women  in 
th'  house  an'  you  with  your  fussin'  outdoors  I'm  afraid 
my  nerves  won't  stand  it  all !  I've  been  through  stam- 
pedes on  th'  Pecos,  an'  blizzards  in  Nebraska ;  I've  been 
lost  in  Death  Valley  an'  I've  had  a  silver  tip  try  to  box 
my  ears,  but  I  just  naturally  can't  break  myself  to  p'lite 
society !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you,  but  your  idea  wins,"  Bayard 
laughed.  "  Go  on  after  him.  Take  .  .  .  Say,  you 
take  Abe  for  him  to  ride  back !  That's  th'  thing  to  do. 
You  put  th'  parson  on  Abe  an'  we'll  be  as  certain  to 


292  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

start  this  fracas  on  time  as  I  am  that  his  'bus  is  apt  to 
secede  from  itself  on  th'  road  any  minute !  " 

Bruce  sent  Abe  away  with  Tommy.  Ann  arrived. 
Twenty  minutes  before  the  time  set  for  the  simple 
ceremony  Abe  brought  the  clergyman  through  the  big 
gate  of  the  Circle  A  with  his  swinging  trot,  ears  up, 
head  alert,  as  though  with  conscious  pride. 

"  The  fact  is,  Bruce,  I'd  have  been  late,  if  Tommy 
hadn't  come  after  me,"  Weyl  confessed  as  he  dis- 
mounted. 

"  So?  I've  been  expectin'  somethin'  would  happen 
to  you.     What  was  it?  " 

"  Why,  Nicodemus,  my  off  horse,  kicked  four  spokes 
out  of  a  front  wheel  and,  when  we  were  putting  on  an- 
other, we  found  that  the  axle  was  hopelessly  cracked.'' 

"  I  knew  that  chariot  would  quit  sometime,  but  this 
horse,  th'  stallion  shod  with  fire  ...  he  don't  know 
what  quittin'  is !  " 

The  sun  was  slipping  toward  the  western  horizon 
when  the  last  of  the  few  who  had  attended  the  cere- 
mony passed  from  sight.  For  a  long  time  Bruce  and 
Ann  stood  under  the  ash  tree,  watching  them  depart, 
hearing  the  last  sounds  of  wheel  and  hoof  and  voice 
break  in  on  the  evening  quiet. 

The  girl  was  wonderfully  happy.  The  strained 
look  about  her  eyes,  the  quick,  nervous  gestures  that 
had  characterized  her  after  the  tragedy  of  Ned  Lyt- 
ton's  death  and  before  her  return  to  the  East,  were 


THE  TRAILS  UNITE  293 

gone.  A  splendid  look  of  peace  was  upon  her;  one  life 
was  gone,  thrown  away  as  a  piece  of  botched  work;  an- 
other was  opening. 

Far  away  to  the  north  and  eastward  snow-covered 
peaks,  triplets,  rose  against  the  bright  blue  of  the  sky. 
As  Bruce  and  Ann  looked  they  lost  the  silver  white- 
ness and  became  flushed  with  the  pink  of  dying  day. 
The  distant,  pine-covered  heights  had  become  blue, 
the  far  draws  were  gathering  their  purple  mists  of 
evening.  The  lilac  of  the  valley's  coloring  grew 
fainter,  more  delicate,  while  the  deep  mauves  of  a 
range  of  hills  to  the  southward  deepened  towards  a 
dead  brown.  Over  all,  that  incomparable  silence,  the 
inexplicable  peace  that  comes  with  evening  in  those 
big  places.  No  need  to  dwell  further  on  this  for  you 
who  have  watched  and  felt  and  become  lost  in  it;  use- 
less to  attempt  more  for  the  uninitiate. 

Ann's  arm  slipped  into  her  husband's  and  she  whis- 
pered : 

"  Evening  on  Manzanita  !  Is  there  anything  more 
beautiful?  " 

Bayard  smiled. 

"  Not  unless  it's  daytime,"  he  said.  "  You  know, 
Ann,  for  a  long,  long  time  it's  seemed  to  me  as  though 
there's  been  a  shadow  on  that  valley.  Even  on  the 
brightest  days  it  ain't  looked  like  it  should.  But  now. 
.  .  .  Why,  even  with  the  sun  goin'  down,  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  that  shadow's  lifted! 

"  I  feel  freer,  too.     This  fenced-in  feelin'  that  I've 


294  BRUCE  OF  THE  CIRCLE  A 

had  is  gone.  I  .  .  .  Why,  I  feel  like  life,  the  world, 
was  all  open  to  me,  smilin'  at  me,  waitin'  for  me,  just 
like  that  old  valley  out  there. 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  makes  it  so?  " 

"  Must  I  tell  you?"  she  asked,  reaching  her  arms 
upward  for  his  neck. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said.  "  With  your  lips,  but  without 
words.  That's  a  kind  of  riddle,  I  guess !  Do  you 
know  the  answer?  " 

Indeed,  she  did! 


THE    END 


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COOKBOOK. 


BY 

fEA€.6AOEYAli£ll 


OFFICIAL  LECTURER 

United  States  Food  Administration 


SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 


Cookery 


The  Literary  Digest  says: 

OF  all  the  books  that  have  been  pub- 
lished which  treat  of  the  culinary  art, 
few  have  came  so  near  to  presenting  a  com- 
plete survey  of  the  subject  as  Mrs.  Allen's. 
If  evidence  were  needed  to  prove  that  cook- 
ery is  so  much  of  a  practical  art  as  to  have 
become  a  noble  science,  Mrs.  Allen  has 
supplied  it.  There  are  more  than  two  thou- 
sand recipes  in  'this  book!  No  reader  need 
be  an  epicure  to  enjoy  the  practical  infor- 
mation that  is  garnered  here.  The  burden  of 
the  author's  message  is,  "  Let  every  mother 
realize  that  she  holds  in  her  hands  the  health 
of  the  family  and  the  welfare  and  the  prog- 
ress of  her  husband  .  .  .  and  she  will  lay  a 
foundation  .  .  .  that  will  make  possible  glo- 
rious home  partnership  and  splendid  health 
for  the  generations  that  are  to  be." 

In  times  of  Hooverized  economy,  such  a 
volume  will  find  a  welcome,  because  the 
author  strips  from  her  subject  all  the  camou- 
flage with  which  scientists  and  pseudoscien- 
tists  have  invested  in.  The  mystery  of  the 
calory,  that  causes  the  average  housewife  to 
throw  up  her  hands,  is  tersely  solved.  The 
tyro  may  learn  how  to  prepare  the  simplest 
dish  or  the  most  elaborate.  The  woman  who 
wants  to  know  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it 
will  find  the  book  a  master-key  to  the  sub- 
ject of  which  it  treats. 


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D 


rama 


Play-Making 

A  Manual  of  Craftsmanship 
By  WILLIAM  ARCHER 

I  MAKE  bold  to  say,"  says  Brander  Matthews, 
Professor  of  Dramatic  Literature  in  Columbia 
University,  "  that  Mr.  Archer's  is  the  best  book 
that  has  yet  been  written  in  our  language,  or  in 
any  other,  on  the  art  and  science  of  play-making. 
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can and  British ;  and  in  no  one  of  them  do  I  discern 
the  clearness,  the  comprehensiveness,  the  insight, 
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illuminating  pages. 

"  He  tells  the  ardent  aspirant  how  to  choose  his 
themes;  how  to  master  the  difficult  art  of  expo- 
sition—  that  is,  how  to  make  his  first  act  clear; 
how  to  arouse  curiosity  for  what  is  to  follow  ;  how 
to  hang  up  the  interrogation  mark  of  expectancy; 
how  to  combine,  as  he  goes  on,  tension  and  sus- 
pension; how  to  preserve  probability  and  to 
achieve  logic  for  construction;  how  to  attain 
climax  and  to  avoid  anti-climax;  and  how  to 
bring  his  play  to  a  close." 

8vo.    Cloth.   $2.00,  net 

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Educational 


The  Land  We  Live  In 

The  Book  of  Conservation 

By 

OVERTON  W.  PRICE 

With  an  Introduction  by 
GIFFORD  P1NCHOT 

"This  book  will  have  a  very  wide  distribution,  not  only 
in  libraries,  but  also  in  the  schools."      Robert  P.  Bass 

(Former  Governor  of  New  Hampshire,  and  President  of 
the  American  Forestry  Association) 

"It  is  the  best  primer  on  general  conservation  for  older 
people  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  good  it  will  do  will 
be  measured  only  by  the  circulation  it  receives." 

J.  B.  White 

(President  of  the  National  Conservation  Congress) 

"I  wish  it  were  possible  to  have  the  volume  made  a 
text  book  for  every  public  school." 

William  Edward  Coffin 

(Vice-President  and  Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Game 
Protective  Legislation  and  Preserves, 
Camp  Fire  Club  of  America) 

With  136  illustrations  selected  from  50,000  photograpJts 
8vo.     241  pages.     $1.50  net 

BOY  SCOUT  EDITION -JACKET  IN  COLORS 


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The  Best  Short  Stories 
of  1915, 1916, 1917 

Edited  by 
EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN 

FROM  every  point  of  view  —  from 
that  of  the  actual  probabilities  of 
reading  enjoyment  to  be  derived  from 
it  by  all  sorts  of  readers;  from  that  of 
the  vivid  and  varied,  but  always  valid, 
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—  THE  BEST  SHORT  STORIES 
warrants  an  emphatic  and  unconditional 
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Indispensable  to  every  student  of 
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successive  year  a  critical  and  historical 
survey  of  the  art  such  as  does  not  exist 
in  any  other  form.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Three  Volumes 

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Wa 


Beyond  the  Marne 

By 

HENRIETTE  CUVRU-MAGOT 


1*  yjADEMOISELLE       HENRIETTE       IS 

■*"■*  the  little  friend  and  neighbor 
of  Miss  Mildred  Aldrich  (author  of 
"  A  Hilltop  on  the  Marne,"  "  On  the 
Edge  of  the  War  Zone,"  etc.),  who 
came  to  Miss  Aldrich  the  day  after 
the  Germans  were  driven  away  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Marne  to  sug- 
gest that  they  visit  the  battlefield. 
Her  book  might  be  called  truly  a 
companion  volume  to  "  A  Hilltop  on 
the  Marne." 

12mo.    Cloth.    Illustrated.    $1.00  net 


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War 

Covered  With  Mud  and 
Glory 

A  Machine  Gun  Company  in  Action 

By 

GEORGES  LAFOND 

Sergeant-Major,  Territorial  Hussars,    French  Army;    Intelli- 
gence Officer,  Machine  Gun  Sections,  French  Colonial  Infantry. 

Translated  by 
EDWIN  GILE  RICH 

With  an  Introduction  by 
MAURICE  BARRES 

of  the  French  Academy 


The  Book  with 

GEORGES  CLEMENCEAU'S 

Famous 

Tribute  to  the  Soldiers  of  France 


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Illustrated 


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On  the  Edge  of  the  War  Zone 

From  the  Battle  of  the  Marne 

to  the  Entrance  of  the 

Stars  and  Stripes 

By  MILDRED  ALDRICH 

The  long-awaited  continuation  of  "  A  Hilltop 
on  the  Marne." 

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other  illustrations.  Cloth,  bound  uniformly  with 
the  same  author's  "  A  Hilltop  on  the  Marne  "  and 
"  Told  in  a  French  Garden."  Net,  $1.25 

Miss  Aldrich  tells  what  has  happened  from  the  day  when 
the  Germans  were  turned  back  almost  at  her  very  door,  to 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  moment  when  the  news  reached 
France  that  the  United  States  had  entered  the  war. 


Told  in  a  French  Garden: 
August,  1914 

By  MILDRED  ALDRICH 

12mo.  Cloth.  With  a  portrait  frontispiece  in 
photogravure  from  a  sketch  of  the  author  by 
Pierre-Emile  Cornillier.  Net,  $1.25 

Unlike  Miss  Aldrich's  other  books,  "  Told  in 
a  French  Garden  "  is  a  venture  in  fiction. 

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War 


The  White  Flame  of  France 

By 

MAUDE  RADFORD  WARREN 

Author  of 
"Peter  Peter,"  "Barbara's  Marriages,"  etc. 

THE  front-line  trenches  at  Rheims  during 
a  bombardment  when  the  shells  were 
whistling  over,  two  Zeppelin  raids  in  London, 
the  heroic  services  of  devoted  actors  and 
actresses  when  they  played  for  the  soldiers 
of  Verdun,;  the  irony  of  the  mad  slaughter, 
the  indestructibility  of  human  courage  and 
ideals,  the  spirit  and  soul  of  suffering  France, 
the  real  meaning  of  the  war  —  all  these  things 
are  interpreted  in  this  remarkable  book  by 
a  novelist  with  a  brilliant  record  in  the  art 
of  writing,  who  spent  more  than  half  a  year 
"  over  there." 

12 mo.    Illustrated.    Net,  $1.50 


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War 

You  Who  Can  Help 

Paris  Letters  of  an  American  Army  Officer's 

Wife,  from  August,  1916,  to 

January,  1918 

By 

MARY  SMITH  CHURCHILL 


'T^HE  writer  of  these  letters  is  the  wife 
■*■  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  Marlborough 
Churchill,  who,  the  year  before  the  entrance 
of  the  United  States  into  the  war,  was  an 
American  military  observer  in  France,  and 
later  became  a  member  of  General  Pershing's 
staff.  Mrs.  Churchill  volunteered  her  serv- 
ices in  Paris  in  connection  with  the  American 
Fund  for  the  French  Wounded  —  "  the  A.  F. 
F.  W."  —  and  these  are  her  letters  home, 
written  with  no  thought  of  publication,  but 
simply  to  tell  her  family  of  the  work  in  which 
she  was  engaged. 

12mo.    Cloth.    Illustrated.    Net,  $1.25 

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War  Camps 


Camp  Devens 

Described  and  Photographed  by 

ROGER  BATCHELDER 

Author  of  "  Watching  and  Waiting  on  the  Border" 

"  An  accurate  and  complete  description  by  pen 
and  lens  of  Camp  Devens."  —  Roger  Merrill, 
Major,  A.  G.  R.  C,  151st  Infantry  Brigade. 

12 mo.    With  77  illustrations.   50  cents,  net 


Camp  Upton 

Described  and  Photographed  by 

ROGER  BATCHELDER 

A  companion  volume  to  "  Camp  Devens,"  and 
like  it,  a  book  that  fills  a  long-felt  want. 

12mo.     Illustrated  with  photographs 
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War  Poetry 


Buddy's  Blighty 

and  other  Verses  from  the  Trenches 

By 
Lieutenant  JACK  TURNER,  M.  C. 

HERE  is  a  volume  of  poems  that  move  the 
spirit  to  genuine  emotion,  because  every 
line  pictures  reality  as  the  author  knows  it.  The 
range  of  subjects  covers  the  many-sided  life  of 
the  men  who  are  fighting  in  the  Great  War,  —  the 
happenings,  the  emotions,  the  give  and  take,  the 
tragedy  and  the  comedy  of  soldiering. 


"  I  have  read  Robert  Service's  '  Rhymes 
of  a  Red  Cross  Man '  —  and  all  the 
verses  written  on  the  war  —  but  in 
my  opinion  '  Buddy's  Blighty,'  by 
Jack  Turner,  is  the  best  thing  yet 
written  —  because  it's  the  truth." 
Private  Harold  R.  Peat 


12mo.    Cloth.    $1.00  net 


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The  Welfare  Series 


The  Field  of  Social  Service 

Edited  by  PHILIP  DAVIS,  in  collaboration  with  Maida  Herman 

An  invaluable  text-book  for  those  who  ask,  "  Just  what 
can  I  do  in  social  work  and  how  shall  I  go  about  it  ?  " 
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Street-Land 


By  PHILIP  DAVIS,  assisted  by  Grace  KroU 

What  shall  we  do  with  the  11,000,000  children  of  the  city 
streets  ?  A  question  of  great  national  significance  an- 
swered by  an  expert. 

12mo.   Cloth.   Illustrated,  $1.35  net 

Consumption 

By  JOHN  B.  HAWES,  2d,  M.D. 

A  book  for  laymen,  by  an  eminent  specialist,  with  partic- 
ular consideration  of  the  fact  that  the  problem  of  tubercu- 
losis is  first  of  all  a  human  problem. 

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One  More  Chance 

An  Experiment  in  Human  Salvage 

By  LEWIS  E.  MacBRAYNE  and  JAMES  P.  RAMSAY 

Human'documents  from  the  experiences  of  a  Massachusetts 
probation  officer  in  the  application  of  the  probation  system 
to  the  problems  of  men  and  women  who  without  it  would 
have  been  permanently  lost  to  useful  citizenship. 
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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

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